That Old Black Magic
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Dean & Sam find trouble when a quick road trip to Louisiana goes bad. Based loosely on Dean's voodoo thing comment in the Pilot. This is a follow up to my previous fic In The Pursqueeter. Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a sequel, of sorts, to** In the **__**Pursqueeter**, but you don't have to have read that one to read this one. But, then again, I'm now a review-addict, so, yes, you DO have to read and review that one! Hee!_

_A little setup, this is AU from the show proper, carrying on the sequence of events from the prior story: Sam killed his Dad in order to kill the demon, Dean spent a week in the hospital, and then the boys stayed at Missouri's for two months before heading to see Sarah in New York._

_And, yes, that means the Impala survived, since the showdown ended in that shack._

_That's just the basics. The details of the previous story, if mentioned here at all, will be explained as we go. _

_A quick thank you goes out to _**eddy6401 **_for giving me an idea for part of this first chapter._

_I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews welcomed._

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**That Old Black Magic**

_Atlantic Ocean, 80 miles East of Long Island._

Dean was going to be sick, miserably, disgustingly sick. And Sam was going to be drowned if he didn't stop smirking in Dean's direction, he just knew it. Who knew the great Dean Winchester could be afraid of both flying **and** boating. _Motion sickness_. _Well, that certainly explains why he never sleeps in the back seat while I drive…. _

He wanted to make fun of his older brother, he wanted to _so badly_, because he knew that Dean would be merciless if there positions were reversed. But Sam just couldn't bring himself to do it. Not after everything Dean had done for him during the last few weeks of his recovery. Dean had been there for him every moment of every day, practically, while Sam struggled to overcome the horrible nightmares, flashbacks and panic attacks that followed his abduction and torture. _Fucking vampires…. _

He owed a lot to Sarah too, for that matter.

They'd been at Sarah's home in New York for three weeks now, and Sam couldn't remember ever being happier. _Not even with Jessica_. He wondered if that had anything to do with the fact that he didn't have to lie to Sarah about his "profession" the way he'd had to lie to Jess. Sarah had first hand experience with it, after all. Dean had been having a blast too, it seemed, constantly playing matchmaker between Sam and Sarah. No matter how many times Sam had asked him to stop.

Dean had been having alot of fun, that is, until _yesterday_. Sarah had suggested taking her father's boat out from Long Island for a day or two of deep sea fishing, which neither Winchester had done before. Sam had been excited, but had noticed Dean growing more and more anxious the closer they got to the waterfront. Once out in the water, Sam figured it out. Not that it was difficult, since the first heavy swell had sent Dean racing for the side and…_well, scaring the fish away, that's for sure_.

He knew that Dean had slept all of two hours the night before, spending most of his time hunched over the toilet in the boat's small bathroom. Sam had offered to stay with him instead of Sarah, but Dean had stubbornly banished Sam from his presence. _He never likes anyone to see him sick_, Sam thought, _At least he only threw up that one time…._

Sam stared out at the shimmering water, which was relatively calm despite Dean's stomach's opinion. He found it hard not to get distracted by this view. It was peaceful. Truly peaceful. Out here it was easy to forget the tumultuous events that had all but wrecked the brothers' lives these last few months. _Or maybe pretend that they had happened to someone else_. He thought of his dad…something that until recently he had absolutely refused to do. It was difficult for Sam to think about his father without remembering that _he_ was the one who had fatally shot him. The fact that his Dad had been possessed by the demon that they'd been hunting all their lives, and that killing him had saved Dean's life, did very little to soothe his conscience as it turned out. He had Dean's forgiveness, but he wasn't sure he'd ever have his own.

If all that wasn't bad enough, on the way here they'd been ambushed in Ohio by Kate and her regrouped gang of bloodsuckers, who'd seen fit to capture and brutally torture him for two days before Dean came to the rescue. Despite the progress he had made here in New York, part of Sam still wondered if that wasn't Fate's way of punishing him for murdering his father.

_Stop it. It **wasn't** murder. I had to save Dean._

Another heaving sound brought Sam's wandering attention back to his ailing brother. Dean was actually green. _I thought that was just a figure of speech_. He reached out and placed a steadying hand on Dean's back, rubbing in a slow circle.

"Take it easy, man. Why don't you move to center of the boat? Might not rock so much there."

"Why don't you shut the hell up, Sammy?" Dean groused.

_Grumpy as usual_. "Get up on the wrong side of the boat this morning?"

Dean's glare forced Sam to laugh. His brother had a real temper when he was sick, and apparently, when he was nauseous. Sam stifled the laugh before Dean grew fratricidal, but continued to rub Dean's back. Dean didn't shrug him off, despite his bad mood…which just meant that he was _really_ sick. Sam stood and pulled Dean off the rail to the center of the deck. He pushed Dean down so that he was sitting cross-legged on the wood.

"Stay here, I'll be right back."

Dean said nothing, probably fearing what might come out of his mouth…besides vitriol. Sam smiled and went into the deckhouse and looked for the medicine cabinet. Sarah climbed up from the sleeping area on the lower deck right about that time.

"Hey, babe, catch anything?"

Sam laughed, nodding in the direction he'd just come, "Just a Hardheaded Shark."

Sarah grinned as she leaned in to kiss him, placing her arms around his midsection. Out of recent habit, Sam shifted slightly to keep pressure off the burn scars along his lower abdomen, having to remind himself that they were healed already. Sarah, unfortunately, noticed, and spoke quietly in his ear.

"You were out of bed before I was this morning…everything okay?"

Sam instantly recognized the question for what it was, once again marveling at how both Sarah and Dean spoke the same secret language. 'You got up early, everything okay?' in this situation meant 'did you have another nightmare that you're not telling me about.' Sarah and Dean were a perfect team, being able to catch Sam internalizing and deflecting nearly all of the time. While some childish part of him resented being so easily read, the rational parts of his brain chorused that this psychiatric tag-teaming of his brother and…lover, he supposed was the best word, since she seemed more than a girlfriend now…had helped his recovery immensely.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just wanted to see the ocean this morning," he replied.

"Are you lying to me, Sam?" she asked coyly, pressing against him.

Sam sighed, unable to stop his physical reaction to her proximity, "Hmm…I don't think I _can_ lie to you…you're out of my league…."

She laughed, releasing him, and noticing his sudden lack of direction, asked "What'd you come in here for?"

"Hmm? Oh…oh! Yeah. Just these," when the blood finally returned to his brain, he held up the box of sea-sick patches, "For Dean."

She jerked her head towards the door, "Gone on, before he gets any sicker. Martin doesn't want him throwing up on the deck again."

Sam nodded and rushed out, not wanting to incur the wrath of the cantankerous boat-master again. Who knew that an old yachtsman in his sixties could be so intimidating to people who _hunted evil_ for a living? Martin worked for Sarah's dad, though, and he definitely didn't want---

He stopped, not really knowing where that line of thought was taking him. He shrugged it off and rejoined Dean on---what did Martin call it? _The quarterdeck. Right_.

He found Dean sitting where he'd left him, head in hands and moaning softly. It was probably the most vulnerable he'd ever seen his older brother, and that included that terrible week in the hospital after the fight with the demon. Sam pushed those memories away forcefully. _It's over_.

"Hey, let me put this on behind your ear, it'll help a little. Well, eventually."

Dean glanced warily at the little Band-Aid-like patch, but shrugged, too miserable to complain. Sam stuck the patch on and went back to his seat at the back. He watched Dean for a minute, and then went back to staring at the ocean. Dean's wobbly voice startled him a little.

"You okay, Sammy?"

He glanced back at Dean with a smirk, "You're the one who's sick."

Dean frowned at him in return, and Sam sighed, "I'm fine. Why don't either of you believe that I just got up early?"

Dean's frown lessened somewhat, he made a conciliatory gesture with one hand, keeping the other hovering near his throat, "I believe you."

Sam decided not to push the issue, and went back to looking out at the water. He readjusted himself and retrieved his rod and reel from where he'd left it when Dean started heaving before. He sent the line back out into the water. He wasn't really good at fishing, and he probably wasn't doing this right. The only way he knew what to do with the rod and reel at all was from a few weekends spent with Pastor Jim and catching those bass shows on cable a few times. Outdoor sports weren't high on their Dad's list of activities when they were growing up. And Dean had usually complained about being bored when they tried to go fishing back then. Dean spoke again, a little closer this time. Sam turned slightly to see that Dean had moved to the rail and taken the chair beside him. He was still green, but was clearly fighting back and gaining a little control. His voice was still shaky, though.

"You know…I saw once that they…made _Jaws_ out here. Think we'll see a shark?"

Sam rolled his eyes, "I think that was a puppet or something, not a real shark…."

Dean replied by smacking him in the back of the head, "_I know that_, dufus…I'm just saying---"

Dean was cut off when something snagged Sam's fishing line. Sam was surprised at first, but regained his senses in time to grab a tighter hold of the rod before it flew out of the boat. When he was actually jerked forward by it, he yelped, and Dean grabbed on and tried to help. Then they saw the fish. It was HUGE. _Well, any fish is huge to people who never been this close, I guess…._ Sam's internal monologue was interrupted when the fish made another attempt to get away, and he and Dean pulled back on the rod with all their might.

The rod apparently thought that was a good time to snap in two.

A sudden feeling of weightlessness, the rapid scenery change from blue sea to blue sky, and the hard impact of solid wood on his back told Sam what happened before his brain could connect the dots. He lay there, flat on the deck, panting and trying to wrap his brain around that fact that the two mighty hunters, Dean and Sam, had just been beaten…by Charlie Tuna. _Or one of his cousins, anyway_. He glanced over at Dean, who lay similarly prostate beside him, and was also gathering his thoughts, it seemed. Sam couldn't help the goofy grin that snuck onto his face.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"I think we need a bigger boat."

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_New Paltz, New York. The next day._

Sam was brought to consciousness by the incessant, nerve-racking sound of a phone ringing. It was one of those damned phones that rang like an electronic cricket. _God, those are obnoxious…._ He tried to ignore it, but every ring seemed to shred any chance he had of making back to sleep. He slowly raised his head out of the warm sandwich created by his pillow and Sarah's hair to look out into the darkened room. He spotted the clock, but had to squint to make out the time through his bleary, sleep-deprived eyes. With a groan he made out 7:30 AM. He dropped his head back to the pillow just as the phone started ringing again. He sighed, and swallowed a few times to prepare his mouth to speak. He started drifting off again in between the mind-rending rings.

"P…one…inging…." he mumbled.

"Hmm?" the lump of hair and blankets next to him muttered back.

"The phone…ringing…." he repeated into the hair.

"What?"

He sighed, and finally cleared his throat, "The phone is ringing."

Sarah's face emerged from the blankets, and immediately burrowed deeper into his bare chest, as if trying to hide from the noise. The hateful ringing continued.

"Sarah…."

She groaned, "Alright…alright…where is it? Oh…." She fumbled with the receiver and managed with some difficulty to hit the ON button, "'Ello? Hmm? Dad?"

Sam blinked at that. Her dad hadn't called her very often during these last few weeks. She was officially on vacation, and her dad was reportedly quite busy with the preparations of some big estate auction. He listened to Sarah's side of the conversation. He knew her well enough by now to know that the discussion wasn't going her way.

"Well can't Robert or Terry--- Okay…okay…I'll call you back in a little while. Yeah…yes…bye, Dad."

Sarah placed the phone back on its pedestal with a loud, exasperated sigh. She turned back to face Sam. He eyed her with curiosity, idly wondering just what could possibly upset such a beautiful creature in the morning. She smiled brightly at him…the kind of smile that told everyone you had bad news, but didn't want to talk about it yet. She wrapped her arms back around him, and exhaled slowly. Her grin took on a wicked look as she snuggled closer.

"That wasn't the most _restful_ night we've ever had was it?"

Sam smiled and nuzzled her skin where the shoulder and neck met, "No…but it was one of the most fun…."

Sarah giggled at that, "Sam…hmm," she began, before she realized he wasn't listening to her anymore, not that she minded what he was doing instead, but… "Sam. Mmm…Sam…**Sam!**"

He pulled back in surprise, "Yeah?"

She frowned dejectedly, "I have to go to work."

Sam joined her in frowning, "What? But, I thought you were on vacation for like…another week?"

She ran her hands up and down his arms, "I am---was... Dad needs someone to go down to Louisiana and pick up something for an auction next week. He's tied up with that estate clearing, and he wants someone he can trust…apparently this thing is rare and expensive…supposedly. I think he just wants someone to go that he doesn't have to pay overtime on a weekend…."

Sam's frown deepened, "Oh." He realized suddenly that he didn't want to leave so soon. He certainly didn't want _her_ to leave. His mood shift must have caught her attention.

"Sam? You okay?"

He forced a smile, "Yeah."

She frowned at him, reading his moods again, "Sam…you guys don't have to leave, I'll be back in a couple of days, and we can pick up…ahem…where we left off." She punctuated her statement by kissing him. That wicked grin appeared again. Sam couldn't keep a similar grin off his own face, despite the bad news of Sarah's leaving. He pulled her closer with a sigh. But she resisted this time.

"Hey…why don't you two come with me?"

"Say what?"

"It's just a meeting with a dealer and some money changing hands. Usually I spend most of the time on these trips waiting for the other guy to show. I'll have nothing to do…you and Dean can keep me occupied."

Sam raised his eyebrows at that, and she amended, "Well…YOU can keep me 'occupied,' how about that?"

_I do like the sound of that plan_. He nodded slowly, "I'll have to ask Dean. Hey, wait…you gonna fly? 'Cause Dean can't fly."

Sarah frowned, "He can't fly either? You know, for someone who eats the way he does he has an awfully weak stomach."

Sam laughed, "Yeah, he's a mystery."

"Well," Sarah continued, "that's not a problem either. We can drive down. I'll push the meeting back until Monday and we can drive down tomorrow. Problem solved."

Her excitement rallied his mood, but he hesitated, "You sure about this? I mean, if your dad---"

"Dad doesn't need to know everything."

_Doesn't need to…hang on…._ "Wait. You haven't told him about…_us_ have you?"

Sarah flashed that smile again, the one that made him give in every time they argued, "That a problem?"

"Well, he…I don't think…he doesn't like us, remember? The little confrontation at the auction house over the Telesca painting?"

Sarah grinned, "You mean _Dean_…he doesn't like Dean."

Sam couldn't fight the smile that tugged at his mouth, "Yeah, but by extension---"

"Doesn't matter. I don't need my father's permission to date a guy…nor do, you know…what we were doing last night…."

Sam felt the blush warm his face, but didn't object. Sarah didn't give him time anyway.

"So, you go wake up Dean, and tell him what's going on. Let _him_ decide."

She all but pushed him out of the bed. Sam took a moment to reassemble his clothes and put them on, and then gave her one final kiss before leaving her to get ready.

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Dean rested his head on his hand, leaning on the kitchen counter, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He felt like he'd been up all night. _Because I HAVE been up all night. Stupid little brother…._

He had gotten in at three, after a _very_ pleasant night with Lizzy, the waitress he'd met at dinner the previous night. _Shore leave rocks…. _He had it all planned out, sneak in, collapse in his guest room and sleep until about noon. Okay, it was a simple plan, but he had meant to enjoy it. That is, until he heard the commotion from across the hall. He'd finally given up on sleep around sunrise, and retreated downstairs to watch TV and doze uncomfortably on the recliner.

_Jesus, Sammy, ALL NIGHT? _His brother was such a repressed perv. He tried to rationalize that, unlike his much wiser (and better looking) big brother, Sammy had spent most of the previous year all pent-up and bitchy…but his lack of sleep prevented any kind of sympathy from forming. He'd have to find a good excuse to get the lovebirds out of the house for the day and maybe then he could crash. But where to send them? The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted his plotting.

He glanced up to see the Little Perv himself gallop down the stairs, looking all proud of himself. _Ughhh…afterglow isn't something you want to see on your younger brother…._

"Hey, Dean…you're already up."

"That college education really paid off for you, didn't it, Sammy?" Dean groused back, not taking his eyes off the paper. Sam didn't seem to notice the barb.

"So, what time'd you get in last night? You look like cr---" Dean's glower cut him off, "---er, like…you're…tired," Sam recovered quickly.

"I got in at three."

Sam looked a little confused, "Couldn't sleep?"

Dean grinned inwardly, payback is sweet. "Nah, someone had this porno film turned up real loud in the room across the hall…every time I tried to sleep the noise woke me up."

Dean relished the sight of the blood draining from Sam's face. _Busted…_.

"Um…I…we…uh…" Sam stammered. Dean was finding it harder to keep that internal grin off his face. Sam looked around to see if they were alone and whispered, "I didn't think we made that much noise…."

Dean's valiant efforts failed, and he almost spewed coffee when the laughter came. Sam's mortification made last night's discomfort worth it.

"Dean, I'm so sorry…."

Dean took pity on his little brother, which was probably a sign of going soft, and waved him off, "Heh. It's okay, Sammy. Though I think now you owe me, since I've never kept _you_ up all night when _I_ got lucky."

Sam started to speak, but froze, his own glower forming, "Wait…yes you have! You made me sleep in the car that night in North Dakota so you could have the room!"

Dean tried to remember, _Oh, yeah…hee_… "That's different; at least you could sleep peacefully."

"It was like _10 degrees_ outside, and the passenger side window was jammed open from where that werewolf had hit it."

Dean's frown deepened, "Yeah…well…it's…you're a _perv_. And your shirt's on backwards."

Sam glanced down, and started struggling to turn his shirt around, Dean snickered.

"Jerk," Sam muttered.

"Bitch."

"Boys?"

Dean jumped at the sound of Sarah's voice. She looked amused as she entered the room.

"You two decide what you're going to do?"

Dean pursed his lips in confusion, "About?"

Sam chimed in, "Oh…yeah. Sarah got called down to Louisiana. She wants to know if we want to go along."

"To Louisiana? For what?" Dean asked.

Sarah took the cue, "My dad wants me to go down and pick up some piece that he's been looking for…spent years asking around, and finally found it and someone willing to sell. You interested in coming along?"

Dean frowned again, that sounded kinda dull. He looked over at Sam, who was trying his best to look noncommittal, but Dean could tell he didn't want to leave Sarah yet. He recognized the look. It was Sam's "don't make me, please" look. Sam had never been able to disguise that one, and Dean had never been able to refuse it.

Frankly, though he would never admit to Sam, Dean wasn't all that keen on jumping back into hunting full-time yet. He hadn't abandoned it, by any means, but the last three months had been pretty rocky…and exhausting. Sam's long recovery had taken its toll as well…but that was something else he wouldn't bring up. He wouldn't want Sam to think he'd been a burden. _He hasn't been_.

"Okay, if you want us to go, we'll go," Dean announced, he ignored the obvious look of relief on Sam's face, "but we're _driving_ down."

Sarah seemed happy as well, "Alright, I'll make the arrangements. I gotta see if I can get a hold of this Marie Babineaux, too. Need to meet her on Monday."

Dean looked up sharply at that, "Wait…who? Did you say Marie Babineaux?"

Sarah stared blankly at him, "Yeah, why?"

Sam was watching him quizzically, "Dean? What is it?"

Dean put on his best poker face and shrugged, "Nothing, I thought…no…I was thinking of somebody else, don't worry about it." He returned his face to the newspaper. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sarah shrug and leave the room. _Crap…crap, crap, crap_….

A hand appeared at the top of the page and pushed it down to the countertop. Sam was staring at him with a Don't-Lie-to-Me look on his face.

"Dean…."

Dean put his I-Only-Lie-When-It's-for-Your-Own-Good-Sammy look on and stared back, "Hmm?"

"Who is this woman? How do you know her?"

_He asks too many questions…._

He didn't want to get into it, but he was too tired to go ten rounds with Sam Winchester, P.I. He sighed.

"Remember when I came to get you at Stanford?" Sam nodded, "Remember I said I'd been working this voodoo thing near New Orleans?" Sam nodded again, "Well, Marie Babineaux was the woman I was helping. She was into some freaky shit, too. Bad news."

"You think she's…what? You think she's trouble?"

Dean glanced in the direction Sarah had gone, "I…no…she was the victim not the problem. I just think we should keep our eyes open. I wouldn't want Sarah getting…." He trailed off, noting the look that appeared in Sam's eyes. Fear. He knew Sammy's worst fear was that something might happen to Sarah…something like what had happened to Jess. He knew that fear had almost derailed the whole relationship from the get-go. He changed his tone, "…I wouldn't want Sarah getting involved in anything bad while she's down there."

Sam still looked worried; he glanced at the door Sarah had left through, all traces of the good mood he'd been in gone, "Yeah…."

_I wish I hadn't brought it up, now_. He didn't like Worried Sam. Angry Sam, Sad Sam, and Guilty Sam were bad enough, but Worried Sam got to him, made _Dean_ worry, and he hated to worry any more than he had too. It took years off his good looks. He tried to head it off before it festered.

"Hey, Sammy, don't worry, man. Everything will be alright. We'll be there with her. And then she'll be back here, helping you keep _me_ up all night in no time."

Sam looked unconvinced; he kept staring out the door, "Yeah…."

Dean sighed. He really wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

TBC

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_A/N: I know this first chapter is a little slow, but this was mainly setup. I'll try to update as soon as possible._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you all for the great reviews, I'm glad you all are open to another story!_

_I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 2**

Dean could tell that Sam was stewing about something. He'd been nursing a mood for about 700 miles…sporting a look that told Dean that the second Sarah was out of earshot Sam was going to pounce, and Dean had better be ready. Dean smiled inwardly, confident that not even Sarah knew how to read _this_ look yet. He was pretty sure what it was about too. He'd managed to dodge any further discussion of Marie Babineaux the day before, and again this morning; Sam wasn't satisfied that this woman wasn't a threat to Sarah. Dean had to admire his brother in this regard. He was a ferocious protector. Just like Dean.

Sarah, for her part, was reading a book in the backseat, only occasionally glancing up to talk or acknowledge the music on the radio. Dean had almost suggested that Sam sit in the back to keep her better company, but the memory of events two nights before dissuaded him from doing so. _Rabbits…freakin' rabbits!_ He didn't want that image in his rearview mirror all the way down to the Gulf coast. Hearing it through closed doors was scarring enough. _I've created a monster…._

He glanced down at the gas gauge on the dashboard. _Near empty. Time to stop_. He glanced at Sam who was staring out the window, still mulling. _Time to face the music, too, I guess…. _He put on a smile.

"Knoxville, Tennessee, time to stretch our legs."

He turned the car off the Interstate and pulled scanned the signs for the cheapest gas. _Prices are ridiculous these days. Some of us road trip for a living, people! _He found one that wasn't so bad and pulled up to the pump. He put the car in park and got out with a grunt. He stretched to get some of the stiffness out of his muscles and the numbness out of his butt. Sarah was the next out, followed by Sam. They murmured to each other, trading romantic comments while Dean started pumping gas. _It really is kinda sickening…. _

"Anybody thirsty?" Sarah asked.

Dean glanced back, "I could use a water."

Sam mumbled something to her that Dean didn't catch, but assumed it was his own request for a beverage. Dean watched the numbers roll by on the orange LCD screen of the gas pump. He listened to Sarah's footfalls on the concrete, measuring the distance to the storefront from the car in his head. _Any minute now…3…2…1…. _On cue, Sam's face appeared right next to him. The stew had bubbled over at last.

"Alright, what else do you know about this woman, Dean?"

Dean looked at his brother innocently, "Who?"

"Don't 'who' me, man, I'm serious!"

Dean sighed and stared at Sam a moment. He saw the frustration, fatigue, and dull but building anger at being kept in the dark all swirling together in his eyes. But Dean knew him well enough to recognize the other emotion there. Fear. Sam was afraid that his 'curse,' as Sam considered it, might befall Sarah as it had befallen their mother and Jessica. It didn't matter to Sam that the demon that had eviscerated their family was gone…in his mind, the danger to his loved ones, the danger that seemed to follow Sam around like a cloud, was very real. The thought alone kept Dean from making light of his brother's feelings in this moment.

"Look, Sammy, I told you. Marie was _the_ _victim_ in that case I worked, okay? She's…well private eye isn't the word…she's a 'relic hunter,' I guess. She works all over the country and Central America, but is based in New Orleans. At least, she _was_ until last year. I guess she's moved since the storms. Anyway, she 'acquired' this artifact, a witch doctor wanted it back, and he went after her. She's always 'finding' stuff that belongs to the wrong people. She got in trouble and I helped her out, that's all."

Sam shook his head, "If that's all, then why do you keep dodging my questions?"

Frowning, Dean turned back to watch the gas pump, "Because…Marie's a voodoo priestess herself. She tracks down this stuff as her day job, and she makes _alot_ of money doing it, but she moonlights as a priestess. She and this witch doctor were involved in this blood feud, and that's why he came after her the way he did."

"Why did _you_ get involved? That's not usually our kind of work."

"Dad owed her. He said she saved his life a few years back and he sent me there to return the favor…make them even. So, I went," Dean shrugged.

Sam was still frowning, but seemed a little more satisfied than before, "And you're sure she isn't trouble?"

Dean laughed, "Oh, she's definitely trouble, Sammy. I won't turn my back on her. But we won't be in any danger, I don't think."

Sam snorted, turning to stare at the store inside the station, "Yeah, right. Like alot of our 'clients.'"

Dean sighed, "Sammy…I know you're worried, man. I know you're scared that something's gonna happen to her, but you're getting all wound up over nothing."

Sam spoke so softly that Dean almost had to read his lips, "I just…I can't lose her too, Dean. I can't go through that again."

"I can't predict the future, Sam. That's your superpower," Sam smirked at that, "but we'll keep our eyes open. She'll be fine as long as we're around, okay?"

Sam smiled faintly, rubbing his temple, "Yeah. I guess you're right."

"Of course I am. For now, it's just you, me, your girl, and the best music collection on the open road, pal. Relax."

Sam laughed at that.

Dean nodded in approval, and moved to remove the gas pump from the car. He pointed at Sam, "Go pay up, would ya?"

Sam nodded and walked off, passing Sarah as she made her way back with a bag of drinks and food. They kissed quickly as they passed. Dean rolled his eyes and got back in the car. Sarah reclaimed the back seat a moment later.

"So, did you two talk it over?" she asked, handing Dean his bottle of water.

Dean blinked, "Talk what over?"

Sarah smirked, "Whatever's been bugging him since yesterday."

Dean blinked again, feeling more than a little dumbfounded. She cocked her head slightly, "I'm a quick study, Dean. I may not know all of them yet, but I'm picking up his facial expressions. He's worried about something."

Dean felt the smallest twinge of jealousy. Sarah was getting to know his little brother _very_ well. He pushed the feeling down and shrugged, "He's worried about this meeting you have. I…had some business with this woman before, and it was a little unpleasant."

"Is she bad news?" Sarah asked seriously.

"No, I don't think so. Sam's just---"

"Sam's afraid. I swear he thinks I'm made of glass sometimes," Sarah said, shaking her head in dismay, but without heat in her words.

"Sammy worries about _everybody_," Dean answered dismissively.

Any further discussion was cut off when Sam returned and plopped down in the passenger seat. Dean eyed him, there was something different, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"We ready?"

Sam nodded, rubbing his temple again.

_That's it_, Dean thought. It was the thin sheen of sweat on Sam's face. It was the same condition that usually heralded one of Sam's visions. _Crap. I didn't jinx him by mentioning his 'power' did I?_

"You okay, Sammy?"

Sam glanced over at him, "Hmm? Yeah, fine, why?"

Dean shrugged, staring at Sam for a moment before putting the car in drive. He'd just have to stay close to the sides of the Interstate, in case they had to pull over. Sometimes Sam's visions could get rough. He glanced back at Sarah and gave her a quiet look. She blinked in acknowledgement. They'd gotten pretty good at this game of silent alerts during Sam's recovery. Whenever Sam was hiding something from them, like his growing headache now, Dean and Sarah could alert each other without his knowing. It gave them the advantage. He didn't like tag-teaming Sammy like this, but sometimes the Winchester stubborn streak reared its ugly head, and they had to combat it somehow. They ganged up on him for his own good.

He pulled out onto the highway. He knew that pressing Sam on his oncoming psychic episode was useless, so he'd just wait it out.

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_Picayune, Mississippi, the same day._

Richard Legiere poured over his ledger for the tenth time. He couldn't find the entry for the 19th. _This is annoying_.

He usually didn't come to the shop on a Sunday, but Marie Babineaux was supposed to bring the artifact she'd found…well, _appropriated_, he didn't ask where or how…for one last appraisal before **Daniel Blake's**representative arrived to claim it for the auction house. Marie was supposed to be there four hours earlier. He'd spent the afternoon balancing his books and catching up on paperwork and emails. He had a secretary, but he was his sister's kid and, frankly, not much good for anything. So, Richard ended up doing this stuff himself on weekends.

He was about to give up when he finally spied the missing entry he'd been searching for and hissed in triumph. He started copying the relevant information over to his permanent ledger. _I'll finish this, and then I'll get out of here. Marie must not be coming_.

He was engrossed in his work when he heard the bell jingle on his front door. He glanced up to see Marie walking in. He smiled and went back to copying the notes, not looking when he spoke.

"'Bout time, Marie, I was about to give up hope," he called. He scribbled more notes. She didn't answer him, but came closer. He stopped writing when he saw her shadow fall over his books; she was right next to him. He looked up.

_What the---?_

Marie looked awful; she was ashen, which looked odd on her dark skin. He noticed that her neck looked…askew. Like she had a crick in it, only a really bad one.

"Marie?"

She just stared blankly at him. He moved to stand up, and her hands moved with lightning speed to close around his neck. He was amazed at her strength. He knew her line of work was tough, but Marie had never looked like an athlete. Alarmed when she didn't stop squeezing, he grabbed at her arms, trying to free himself. Her strength suddenly seemed freakish. He clawed at her, panicking, but she just kept on with that blank stare.

Dark spots began to float into his vision. He couldn't get a breath past her vice-like grip. He spasmodically moved to grab a book, a pen, anything he could use as a weapon. His hands flailed, unable to coordinate any movement with his brain. He felt like the world was moving in slow motion.

He met her glassy eyes as the world faded away and darkness claimed him. One last thought flitted aimlessly through his head.

_Why?_

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They stopped at 10:00 PM, after fourteen hours on the road. Spying a decent looking hotel outside Fort Payne, Alabama, Dean glanced back at Sarah, who'd just woken from a restless nap in the back seat. After looking at her dad's papers, Sarah had told him that they were actually going to Picayune, an hour north of New Orleans, just across the State line. _Technically in Mississippi, Mr. Blake…tsk, tsk…_ Dean chuckled to himself. Apparently, Sarah's old man wasn't up on his geography. At any rate, stopping here would give them about five hours left to travel; Dean could easily make that up in the morning if he avoided traffic.

"We're gonna stop here, okay? I'm beat and Sam's in no condition to drive." He glanced over at his very pale brother, who was covering his eyes with one hand. He'd finally admitted to a headache, and a bad one at that, but so far no visions. It was peculiar. He had all the symptoms of a psychic episode…but nothing had happened yet.

Sarah nodded groggily, "Yeah, fine, I don't have to meet Ms. Babineaux until lunchtime. We'll be able to make it down before then, I'm sure."

Dean pulled into the lot and parked near the main office. He could see a teenage boy leaning wearily against the check-in desk, obviously bored out of his mind. He started to get out of the car, but stopped himself. He suddenly felt awkward but wasn't sure why.

"Um…one room or two?"

Sarah looked at him blankly for a moment, but Sam chimed in grumpily before she could answer.

"One, dude…why would it be _two_?"

Dean blinked at the harshness in Sam's voice, but didn't show any other reaction outwardly. _Sam must really be in pain_. Dean shrugged and left the car. He opened the office door, glancing back at Sam before entering. _It might just be a headache_… he thought, but dismissed that idea, given Sam's luck in life thus far.

He wished the vision, or whatever it was, would just come on already.

It didn't take long to get the room. Dean pulled the car around to the back; as they often did, they got a room far from the office and hidden from the road. He told Sam and Sarah to go ahead in and volunteered to unload the car. Sam's headache was obviously growing, and he didn't seem to hear; Sarah nodded gratefully and proceeded to help Sam into the room. A few minutes later, they were settling in on the beds. Sam was rubbing his forehead openly now. Dean sat down next to him on the bed while Sarah unpacked her bags.

"Not feeling any better, huh?"

Sam shook his head.

_Must be pretty bad for Sammy not to deny it_… Dean thought grimly, "Is it a vision?"

They had discussed Sam's visions with Sarah when they told her about the trouble with the vampires in Ohio. She had accepted it pretty easily considering. They chose not to tell her about the telekinesis part yet…after all, _that_ had only happened once and wasn't likely to happen again. It certainly hadn't showed up when they were trapped by the demon or when Sam was held hostage. Dean still categorized it as a mere fluke.

"It's not a vision…just a migraine I guess…." Sam muttered. He was gasping for air a little, as though the pain was literally taking his breath away.

"You take anything for it, yet?" Dean asked.

"Back at that gas station when it first started. I don't think it helped any."

Dean patted him on the shoulder, "Why don't you lie down and try to sleep? Maybe it will go away. You haven't gotten much rest lately…." He finished with a smirk.

Sam smiled a little, before wincing at the motion, "I'd love to, but I tried in the car…whenever I lay my head back it feels like my brain's gonna explode."

Dean couldn't help himself, "Ew. Well, I'm glad you didn't force the issue inside my car."

Sam glanced sideways at him, smiling weakly again.

"I'll be okay…just gotta ride this one out I guess."

Sarah came back into the room from where she'd been stocking the bathroom with her large number of toiletries. Dean shook his head. _Girls_….

He moved back to his bed and motioned toward Sam, "Hey, bro, you got the remote. Why don't you find us something to watch?"

Dean wasn't looking when he said it…otherwise he might have seen it coming. He heard Sam cry out. His head snapped up in time to see Sam clutch his temples.

The television clicked on and starting rotating through the channels rapidly. Dean reacted in two different directions. His _brain_ instinctually instructed his hand to reach for the salt-loaded shotgun by the bed, since they obviously had a poltergeist. His _mind _ordered his eyes to lock onto Sam, who had reacted oddly when the TV turned on. _Something's not right_….

While Sarah backed away from the TV with alarm, Dean stepped over to Sam's bed. Sam's eyes were fixed on the set, wide but unfocused. His pupils were huge. Dean's brain and mind were coming back into synch, and he decided to test something.

"Sam? Can you hear me?"

Sam slowly swiveled his head toward Dean and nodded, but the look in his eyes was a million miles away.

"Sam?" he glanced at Sarah, who had joined them at the bed, "Can…can I use your phone? I need a pizza."

Sam gritted his teeth and flinched, but nearly without a sound from him, his cell phone flew over to the bed and hovered just inside arm's reach. It turned on and dialed 411 without Sam even looking at it. Dean stared at it numbly, listening to it ring once before the operator picked up.

"_City and state, please_?"

Dean shook himself out of his frozen state and grabbed the phone out of the air and spoke quickly.

"Uh…sorry, my kid brother's playing with the phone. Sorry." He clicked the phone off before the lady could respond, "Sammy?"

Without warning, Sam groaned and fell back against the head board, panting. He glanced at Dean, then at Sarah in confusion for a moment, before dropping his head into his hands. Dean could see he'd turned three shades of red. It was a startling shift from the deathly pale he'd been just a second ago.

Sarah broke the tense silence first, "Um…okay…you guys know more about this stuff than I do…what just happened?"

Dean glanced back to Sam. When it became clear that Sam wasn't going to answer, he looked at Sarah apologetically.

"Uh, Sarah…look. We didn't tell you everything. Um…Sam can…well, once he…moved something with his mind."

From the look on Sarah's face, Dean would have thought he'd just spoken in an alien language.

"Come _again_, Dean?"

"Once, in Michigan," Dean fumbled for the words, "when…well…this kid was going to shoot me…Sam was locked in a closet behind a china cabinet, and he…well, he saw me die in one of his visions and…sorta…_moved_ the cabinet out of the way without using his hands."

Sarah looked bewildered, "He can _move_ things _with his mind_…?"

Dean just nodded, unsure of how to make that sound any better. _Hell, it still sounds crazy to me, and I do this for a living_…. He sat down on the bed. Sam now had his eyes squeezed shut, and his arms were wrapped protectively around himself. Sarah joined them after a moment.

"Hey…you okay?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam ignored him and looked at Sarah, "I'm sorry…."

She looked perplexed at his sudden statement, "For what?"

"I…I guess I should have told you I was a freak."

She frowned at that, "You're not a freak, Sam."

He didn't look convinced. Dean drew his brother's attention, "Sammy…what happened?"

Sam shrugged.

"How's your headache?" Dean asked.

Sam looked at him, "It's gone…."

_Well, that's something…. _

"What do you think brought this on after so long?" Dean continued.

Sam frowned, then shrugged again, then seemed to actually ponder the question. _Come on, Geek Boy…_ He hoped setting Sam into "research mode" might ease his brother's apparent discomfort at the sudden reappearance of his mental ability. It seemed to be working.

"Um…well…I had the visions, and they seemed to get stronger when the demon was involved, and you," he nodded towards Dean, "but…the only time the telekinesis happened was when you were in **danger**. And not even all the time, I mean, when the demon…." Sam trailed off, his obvious discomfort growing at the sudden turn of the conversation.

Dean pursed his lips and threw a smirk towards Sarah, "Well, I asked you to turn on the TV…maybe I was in danger of getting bored."

Sam and Sarah rolled their eyes in unison. Dean cleared his throat and continued.

"But, uh, you were hurt and in trouble a while back," Dean still had trouble mentioning the incident in Ohio specifically, afraid of making Sam remember too much after he'd recovered so well. _Why remind him?_ "…maybe that triggered something that's making your Jean Grey thing come out. A defense mechanism that's come online, you know?"

Sam stared at him a moment, looking uncertain, "Maybe…I mean, I guess that's possible…might have been more helpful a few months ago."

Dean chuckled, "Well, you never have done things the easy way." He looked back and forth between his brother and Sarah, and since Sam seemed to be okay, decided they might need a moment. He tried to think of something they might need so that he could excuse himself.

"Hey, I forgot Dad's journal, it's still in the car. Be right back."

Sam eyed him as he got up, but only nodded. There was a hint of gratitude in his expression.

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Sam felt about two feet tall under Sarah's gaze. He tried to see her without looking directly at her. He wasn't sure why this was so awkward. He felt ten times as nervous about revealing this to her as he did when he'd told Dean about it almost a year before. Of course, Dean was different. He was used to this stuff…besides he could always tell Dean anything. It had been that simple ever since Sam had first learned to talk. He glanced sideways at Sarah again before taking a deep breath. _Might as well dive right in_….

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Sarah."

She blinked a few times before answering, "Are you under the impression that I'm mad at you, Sam?"

He shrugged, unsure of how to answer.

She threw her hands in the air a little and shrugged, "I mean, yeah, I'm a little freaked out, but…I mean…the man I love can move things just by _thinking_ about it. What am I supposed to say to that?"

It was Sam's turn to blink. They had been moving slowly since getting back together, and the L-word had been used sparingly. They were both a little nervous about using it. He couldn't help the smile that formed on his face. He decided to change the subject. It was a tactic he'd learned from Dean very well.

"The man you _what_?"

She swatted him playfully, "You heard me. Don't think that your good looks give you a blank check."

They both looked up when they heard Dean clear his throat from the doorway. He appeared cautious when moving into the room. It bothered Sam a little that Dean was feeling uncomfortable. He'd have to find a moment to set his big brother straight on a few things. He pushed himself a little higher on the bed and cleared his own throat.

"You get it?"

"Mm-hmm."

Dean moved to his bed and sat down, and they all stared at each other silently. No one seemed to know what to say next. Sarah broke the tension first.

"So…it didn't look like you could control…you know…_it_."

Sam shook his head, "No. I…the first time it happened, it was because Dean was in danger. I don't know what triggered it now. I just heard Dean ask me to turn on the TV and my headache just _spiked_."

Dean chimed in; he seemed relieved to be talking shop, "Well, you've been under a lot of stress the last few months. Maybe---I mean, who knows what kind of stuff makes this thing develop. It took 23 _years_ just to come this far. And maybe it seems to be random because you don't know how to control it."

Sam nodded, "Yeah. We should talk to Missouri about it. I guess I should learn to control it, or I might end up moving stuff around in public or in the middle of a hunt."

Dean stifled a yawn, "Well, we're not gonna figure this out tonight. Let's get some rack time so we can get into town before Sarah's meeting tomorrow."

Sam nodded his agreement and settled into bed. Sarah joined him a few minutes later. He draped his arms around her and settled in. As his eyes drifted shut, his mind wouldn't stop theorizing on what had caused his psychic outburst. He fell into a fitful sleep a short time later.

He dreamed about Max.

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_Monday morning_.

They were back on the road by 6:30 the next morning. Dean tried to keep his bleary eyes on the road. A huge cup of coffee was his only lifeline to consciousness. He had spent a restless night watching Sam try to sleep. He didn't want to be asleep if another telekinetic Kodak moment started up. It didn't appear to him that Sam had slept much better. His brother was currently propped up against the car window, snoring lightly. Sarah was pouring over her father's notes in the back seat, trying to get a better idea of the "art piece" she was retrieving when they got to Picayune.

The time passed quickly. Before long, they were nearing the city limits of their destination. Dean could have sworn that he dozed off twice on the highway on the way down, despite the caffeine rushing through his veins. He had finally nudged Sam awake so that the younger man's talking would keep him alert. He had spent literally days on end driving while Sam chatted incessantly. Dean had learned how to use that to his advantage. He liked to think that always he drove his best when Sammy was yapping on about…well, anything.

Sammy didn't disappoint. He'd taken to reading up on their destination on the laptop. Picayune had emerged from the previous year's disastrous hurricanes relatively unscathed, and as a result, hosted thousands of refugees from harder-hit New Orleans. The town's population had swelled to over 40,000…almost four times its normal number of residents. To Dean that meant a lot of strangers and passers-through. That could be good or bad. Good for them, since their less than legally acceptable activities would be harder to spot in a larger town. Good for Dean, since it meant an overloaded police establishment, and less time to go searching for his face on wanted posters. _A definite plus after St. Louis. _

It was bad in that with so many strangers, more dangerous types, and both people and…**not**, could infiltrate the population with ease.

They stopped at an inn at the outskirts of town, and got a room for the next two days. They weren't sure how long this would take, and wanted to be ready for an extended stay.

As Dean and Sarah unpacked their bags, for the second time in less than a day, Sam picked up the morning paper which he'd gotten from the lobby, and sank down into one of the small dinette chairs to read up on local events. Dean strategically placed their weapons around the room while Sam read. After the previous night's unrest, he planned on crashing at the soonest possible opportunity. Sam's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Dean? Can you describe this Marie Babineaux for me?"

His exhaustion probably bled into his voice a little too much when he replied with a sigh.

"Why, Sam? I told you she won't be a problem. You're _obsessing_ man…."

"Dean! Is she black, long hair, a fashion model's face, with pretty brown eyes?"

"Yeah, I guess…yeah, why?"

"Then we have a problem…"

"What? What's the problem?" Sarah asked, coming out of the bathroom to hear the conversation.

Sam flipped the newspaper over so they could see the photo of the woman in question.

"…because Marie Babineaux is dead."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry it took so long with this, I'll try to get the next chapter together sooner._

_A special thanks goes out to Faye Dartmouth for being a beta for this chapter. I'm indebted to Faye for making this chapter much better than it originally was! Thank you!_

_I didn't think Telekinetic Sam would make such a big splash with readers; I'm honestly surprised by how many have commented on that. _

_I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 3**

"Who'd you say you were with again?"

Graham Benoit, the owner of the quaint bed and breakfast where Marie Babineaux had been found dead, stared at them. A variety of emotions clouded his face, mostly doubt and confusion.

"FBI, sir. I'm Agent Sam Gillespie, and this is my partner, Dean Tibbs. We were investigating Ms. Babineaux for trafficking illegal goods across State lines."

"Illegal goods, like what?"

"Rare artwork mainly," Dean chimed in after pocketing his fake FBI credentials, "sometimes jewels, stolen artifacts and the like."

Benoit huffed, "Well, if she had any of that stuff with her when she rented the room, she didn't tell me about it."

Sam smiled. Dean always said people bent over backwards to help him when he flashed that smile.

"We don't think you're involved, Mr. Benoit. We read the police report. They did a fine job with the crime scene, but my partner and I have been working this case for months now and we just want to go over the place once more. See if we can find anything the local authorities might have missed."

Benoit stepped back out of the doorway, visibly relaxing, "Well, we aren't trying to hide anything, and we don't want any trouble, come on in."

"We?" Dean asked.

Benoit gestured into the next room, "My wife, Violet. We've run this place for almost twenty years now. Nothing like this has ever happened before."

Sam nodded sympathetically, "We understand. A death on your property can be hard to deal with. Has there been much publicity?"

Benoit shook his head, "Thankfully, no. As it is, we've already lost two other renters. Our business was doing fine until this…any word on how long we'll be shut down?"

Dean shrugged, "No way to know for sure. We're letting the local PD make the call there. But, hey, we'll talk to 'em…see if we can grease the wheels a bit."

Benoit looked pleased, "I'd appreciate that, Mr. Tibbs."

Sam cleared his throat, the owner was a little on the talkative side, he pointed up the stairs, "Might if we…?"

Benoit waved them on, "No, no, go right ahead. Violet and I are going to finish packing."

Dean paused on the steps, "Packing?"

"Yes, sir. The police told us we could stay with some friends across town until they get finished here. Since we can't run the place, we figured we could treat it like a vacation."

"Ah, well, thank you."

They headed upstairs. Once out of earshot, Dean swatted Sam's shoulder, "Gillespie and Tibbs? Couldn't you pick a show with some hotties on it?"

Sam swatted him back and whispered, "I _liked_ that show!"

Dean snorted derisively, "You would."

Sam smiled and shook his head; Dean's tastes were nothing if not consistent. They reached the third floor and entered the hallway. There were three bedrooms, a living area, and TV den, and a common bathroom on this floor, and another set of stairs leading down at the other end of the hall. Police tape marked off that set of stairs.

Sam pointed ahead, "They found her at the bottom of those stairs up ahead. But she didn't fall. From the report your…friend…at the police department gave us, the force of impact and her position suggests that she was _pushed_. So--- Dean…what are you doing?"

Dean was tugging at the shoulder of his black suit jacket, "Argh! I hate this thing! It rides up in the arms---"

"_Anyway_," Sam interrupted testily, "it looked like she was pushed, but none of the other guests saw anyone or anything out of the ordinary, all the other guests have airtight alibis, and no one broke into the place."

"So you're thinking this might be something up _our_ alley." Dean stated.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, "I mean no one saw or heard anything, even though she fell down a flight of wooden stairs and broke a vase on the way down. I'm thinking a pissed off spirit maybe. You said she was into some pretty dark stuff, right, so--- Dean?"

Sam turned around when he realized that Dean was no longer at his side. He found Dean stopped in front of a mirror a few feet back, shaking his head and examining his suit forlornly.

"We look like the Men in Black…."

Sam shook his head, but couldn't keep the smile off his face at his brother's single-mindedness. The smile became a smirk as his phone rang, he looked at the ID. _Sarah_. He hit the receive button and glanced at his fussing brother.

"M.I.B.: Agent S and Agent D."

Dean glowered at him, muttering "You are such a _bitch_…" but he was barely smothering a laugh. He glanced back down the stairs to make sure they were alone. Sam listened to Sarah on the other end.

"Took you long enough to get in…."

"Yeah, well the owner's the friendly type, so he talked too much…plus Dean looks a little too scruffy to be a FBI agent so it took a little convincing," he ignored the glare Dean sent his way, "Everything okay out there, Sarah?"

"Yeah. Just wanted you to know that the owners have pulled the car up to the side door and they're packing it; you should have a few minutes anyway," Sarah supplied.

"Alright, thanks Sarah, we'll be in touch. Call if anything else happens out there…." Sam shut off his cell and looked at Dean, "Benoits are outside; we've got the place to ourselves for now."

_It feels odd having a lookout in the car_…Sam thought. But he found that he liked it.

Sam continued cautiously down the hallway in front of Dean. The police had conveniently cleared everyone out the day before, leaving the building empty except for Benoit and his wife downstairs, who had apparently only returned a few minutes before he and Dean had showed up. Sam glanced around at the old fashioned architecture of the building…it creeped him out, but he wasn't sure _why_. It was an old-style building dating back to the 1800s, with ornate wood fixtures along the walls and murals painted in the spaces between the doors.

"Here it is, Room 8."

They found Marie's room in good condition. Nothing _unusually_ out of place, no debris nor signs of a struggle. No belongings strewn about…just normal. Dean swept the room with the EMF and the infrared thermal scanner and found…nothing.

"Maybe it was just a run of the mill murder, Sammy, I don't know…."

Sam frowned, something felt **off** in the room. He couldn't quite place it, but he could sense it. It was alot like the feelings he got when they "cleaned" their old house in Lawrence…like something was lurking just out of reach…or like voices muffled by walls. He shook his head, trying to shake the feeling of unease that had settled over him.

He wasn't Missouri, and the experience with The Demon had proven to him that his "powers" were weak and unreliable, at best. _Some psychic I am_…. She maintained that his ability would grow in time, but Sam doubted her optimism. As far as he was concerned, if he couldn't even use these abilities to help his brother or save his father, then he didn't want them at all.

A beep from the EMF broke him out of his reverie.

"Wait a minute…." Dean whispered, moving back to sweep the closet door again, "I'm getting a residual…like something passed through here recently."

Sam moved towards Dean, "Such as what? A spirit?"

Dean shrugged, "Maybe. It's too weak to tell. Just a leftover of…something."

Sam looked at him, "We go in?"

Dean nodded, drawing his Beretta from under his jacket; Sam did the same with his .45, which unlike Dean's was only loaded with rock-salt rounds. Sam reached for the door handle.

"Listen, if you agents---"

Sam and Dean both spun at the sound of Benoit's voice, guns raised. Benoit jumped back out the door of the room.

"Don't shoot!"

Sam let out a ragged breath and lowered his gun slowly, "Jesus…sorry! It's okay!"

Dean was less gracious, "What the hell are you doing sneaking up on two _armed_ men!"

Benoit cowered behind the doorframe for a moment before stepping out with his hands raised, "I…I…just wanted to ask if you needed anything else before we loaded everything into our car…."

Dean shook his head angrily and went back to examining the closet door. Sam ran his hand through his slicked-back hair and let his gun hang loosely at his side, "Oh…well, actually, yes. Can you get us a copy of your records from the last few days? Lists of people staying here? You never know what will prove important in these cases."

Benoit scratched his chin thoughtfully, "Oh, you mean in case someone else who's stayed here might have killed that poor woman? Well, the police took a copy already, but I'll be happy to get you one, too."

Sam smiled, "Thank you, sir. That will save us a trip down to the station later."

The older man chattered on happily as he retreated from the room.

Sam turned back to Dean, who was poised to open the closet, "Ready, Sammy?"

Sam nodded and raised his weapon. Dean turned the knob, and pulled open the door. They were greeted by a closet that was just as ornately designed as the room and the hallway outside. They pushed articles of clothing which they presumed were Marie's aside and looked around the small space. More nothing. Sam stepped back, only to be overcome by a wave of vertigo. He gasped in surprise, grabbing the doorjamb for support and drawing a concerned look from Dean.

"What is it?"

Sam shook his head slowly, "Nothing…just a little dizzy."

Dean frowned, and glanced from Sam to the closet and back again, "Let me guess…weird vibes?"

"Yeah. Can't really explain it."

Another soft beep from the EMF punctuated his statement.

With a glance behind them to make sure Benoit wasn't nearby, Dean pushed past the hanging clothes and felt around the back walls of the closet.

"What are you looking for?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean glanced up at the ceiling before answering, "Not sure. Gut feeling I guess."

Sam chuckled, "Between my vibes and your gut, I'm surprised we even need an EMF detector…."

Dean smiled, but continued feeling around the walls, he started tapping the wall with the barrel of his Beretta, "Well, if there are residuals coming from this closet, then something obviously came out of here…and I just can't see a ghost occupying a closet for no reason. So, I'm thinking---"

A hollow echo sounded as Dean's gun tapped along the center of the rear wall. Dean felt the wall for a moment before leaning into it a bit. The wall moved and a wisp of dust blew out of cracks, showing the outline of another door in the back of the closet.

"---that's there's something we're not seeing," Dean finished with a grin. Sam joined him and they pushed harder, the wall creaked and popped back into place with a muted pop. They put pressure on it and the wall slid sideways about halfway into the adjoining wall. The coughed at the cloud of dust the movement kicked up. Sam retrieved a flashlight from his jacket and shined it into the darkened room as they slipped silently inside.

Sam swept the walls with the light, revealing the "room" as a long narrow space than ran _behind_ the walls of the hall and the other bedrooms. The air was stale, as if the room hadn't been occupied for quite a few years. It reminded Sam a little too much of a tomb. As they moved deeper inside, the space opened into a larger area. What Sam saw stopped him cold. He froze in place, and Dean collided with him.

"Dude, what--- Holy…."

Sam pointed ahead at the walls, which were blackened as a result of a past fire. A bad one. But even the scorched patterns on the wall didn't distract much from the decor.

Iron chains and shackles dotted the length of the wall, with places for both hands and feet to be secured. Several more shackles hung from the ceiling rafters. Closer to the floor, the remains of old cots could be seen, also outfitted with chains. One of the cots held a small scattering of aged bone fragments and conspicuous remnants of ash and dust…the unmistakable remains of a human being that apparently burned to death in the fire.

Sam's blood ran cold at the sight of the "body" chained to the cot where he or she had obviously died. Memories of his captivity in Ohio trickled back to him. He saw a flash of vampire fangs digging into his flesh, and heard…or maybe felt…the crackling of electricity. For a moment, he felt a hard wooden slab scraping against his back. His eyes were drawn back to the chains. His breath hitched and he involuntarily took a halting step backwards, lowering the gun and flashlight. Dean was suddenly at his side.

"Hey, hey…Sam! Breathe, man. Don't freak out on me right now. You hear me?"

Sam tried to focus on Dean's voice and took a deep breath. He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut for a minute. He found himself grasping his brother's arm without realizing it. Dean eyed him with concern.

"You okay?"

Sam nodded. He wasn't, but he tried to focus on why they were in this hidden room.

"Um…I'm guessing this room isn't in the brochure."

Dean smiled at the attempt at bravado, and shook his head, "Probably not. I'm beginning to think our unseen murderer might have been connected to this place."

The EMF meter in Dean's hand starting blinking and beeping rapidly. An earsplitting scream cut through the stale air, causing both men to cover their ears. Dean raised his gun as the scream slowly faded. Sam reached out and stayed his hand.

"No! Wait. We can't just open up in here…not with the owners right downstairs. We should wait until they leave."

Dean frowned, but nodded. He favored Sam with a smirk, "Spoil sport."

They retreated out the door into the bedroom. Sam slipped his gun back into his suit jacket and leaned against the wall, pressing his hand to his eyes. He listened as Dean covered the secret door so that it wouldn't be seen, and closed the closet door.

"Sammy? What happened in there?" Dean expression told Sam that he already knew the answer; he just wanted Sam to admit to it. Sam felt suddenly embarrassed.

"I, uh, I had a…flashback…the chains on the cot…I'm sorry."

Dean's frown lessened, "Don't be…hey, it's only been a few weeks since you were...since the abduction. You need a minute?"

Sam shook his head. He wanted to get moving and forget about his relapse, "No. No, let's go down and get the check-in books, then we can check out the history of this place and come back tonight."

Dean eyed him.

"What?"

"Nothing." Dean answered coyly.

"Dude, I'm fine…I just…I'm fine. Let's get this over with so we can find out what's going on around here."

Dean looked at him for a moment, and then concealed his gun. He motioned for the door, "After you."

Sam and Dean descended the stairs in silence. They found Benoit and his wife chatting quietly by the front desk in the common room. The older couple obviously hadn't heard the commotion upstairs. Sam hung back and watched while Dean sauntered up and turned his "charm-the-girls" look up to full power. Dean started working Violet Benoit and her talkative husband for more information, and had just secured the ledgers and books from the couple when a sharp pain spiked in the back of Sam's head.

It started slow, bubbling up from somewhere above his spine, and then lanced down the center of his head, coming to rest right behind his eyes and stealing his breath away. He managed to hold in the cry of pain that was trying to escape his throat, letting only a brief grunt out. He glanced towards the desk in alarm, wondering if his brother might have heard, but Dean was still working the Benoits over for details of how they came to own the place.

Sam rubbed a hand over his face and turned to casually inspect the decorations on the walls when he heard a strained voice. It seemed to float down from everywhere…and nowhere.

_Butcher…_

_Monster…_

Sam ignored the shivers that the voice sent down his spine, as his eyes scanned the old black and white photographs along the wall. His eyes seemed drawn to one in particular. A fancily dressed man in his thirties or forties, wearing a top hat and sporting a black cane, stared back at Sam. He uncannily resembled the old Monopoly game guy…only more sinister. _And the Monopoly guy never made me feel this cold_, Sam thought.

His tongue seemed to be disconnected from his brain as he found himself turning back towards Dean and the Benoits.

"Who is this?"

Graham Benoit glanced at the photo Sam was looking at and replied casually, "Oh, that's the original owner of this place. He built it in the early 1800s. He was a merchant, or entrepreneur I think, I'm not really sure, why?"

Sam's brain chose that moment to reconnect, and he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage, "No reason…I, uh, collect antique photographs. This one looked…interesting is all. Thank you."

Sam returned his gaze to the picture, and stayed that way until he felt Dean herding him out the front door and out into the small courtyard.

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Dean all but carried his oblivious brother out the front door of the bed and breakfast. Sam's eyes were glazed over, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his features. He said Sam's name, and repeated it when his brother didn't react. When Sam still didn't respond, Dean smacked him lightly on the jaw. It finally got his attention, and Sam blinked a few times as if he weren't sure where they were.

"Are we done?"

Dean frowned, "Dude, what happened in there? You totally zoned out on me."

Sam was blinking slowly, and nervously rubbing at his temple the way he had been on the drive down. Dean took him by the arm and led him down the short cobblestone walkway towards the street. He waited until they'd passed the creepy angel statues that he noticed on the way in before stopping again. Glancing back to the building to make sure they were alone, he pulled Sam around to face him.

"Another headache?"

Sam nodded.

"When'd it start?"

Sam cleared his throat before slowly speaking, "When we went downstairs…you were talking…and I heard something."

"What did you hear?"

"A voice…it said 'butcher,' then 'monster.' Then it was gone…and all I could focus on was that photo…I don't know what caused it."

"Has the headache gone away?" Dean asked as they reached the car. Sarah relinquished the front seat when she saw them coming.

Sam shook his head, then grunted at the movement and touched his forehead, "Ahh…no…not yet. Ah, man…it's pretty bad."

Dean ushered Sam into the car, then got in himself. He didn't want the Benoits to notice anything should they come out, so he pulled away from the bed and breakfast quickly and drove towards downtown. With Sam again out of commission, he filled Sarah in on what they found.

"So," Sarah inquired, "why do you think she was killed?"

"No way to know…yet. When spirits kill it's usually for things like revenge or some psycho killing spree that was started in life and carried over."

Sam raised his head slightly, with a soft moan that didn't escape Dean's attention, "Wait…Sarah? What exactly was she going to sell to your father?"

Sarah flipped through the stack of papers her dad had supplied before they left New York, "Um…here we go, it should be a crucifix inside a circle…pure gold…with a Latin inscription. About the size of a CD…but fairly heavy."

"Why…was your dad looking for it?" Sam asked slowly.

"Ha! This thing has been an obsession of my dad's for years. That's why he jumped on it even for the price she asked for. It's his Holy Grail, I think. If you believe the story, it's a cross forged from stolen Spanish gold about three or four hundred years ago, and brought to American by slaves from the Caribbean. It's popped up occasionally in stories, but this is the first time anybody had come forward with an authentic one. Dad's dreamed about auctioning this thing for years."

Dean raised his eyebrows at that…who knew 'Chuckles' was into treasure hunting? He looked over at Sam, "So, you're thinking cursed object, maybe? Like that movie about the fog?"

Sam shrugged, and spoke sluggishly, "Maybe…I didn't see any cross like that in her room…and nothing in her bags that I could see," he looked back at Sarah with hooded eyes, "How long did she have it?"

Sarah flipped more pages, "Looks like about a week, maybe a little longer. She had it appraised and authenticated before contacting the auction house."

Dean shook his head, "Why wait so long? I mean, usually a cursed object would cause harm almost immediately…I mean, sometimes it can be years down the road, but normally it happens pretty fast."

"Like the Telesca painting…that happened the same night it was bought," Sarah said.

Dean nodded.

Sarah spoke up again, "So…wait? You think this ghost or spirit took the cross?"

Dean shrugged, "I dunno…if it had some kind of value to this dead guy…or girl, then maybe. Question is what _happened_ to it? There was nothing in that hidden room that I could see…certainly no gold."

Sam stirred a little in the passenger seat, though he kept his eyes closed, "Well…maybe…maybe it _wasn't_ stolen. Did, um…did anyone else know about this thing? Someone that might be keeping it?"

Dean watched in the rearview mirror as Sarah flipped through the papers some more. She pointed to a name on one of the pages, "Here we go. Richard Legiere…he's a rare antiquities collector and appraiser. He's actually the one who called my dad Saturday. He appraised it for Marie and set up the transaction. Says here he opened a shop nearby, after his last one was flooded out in New Orleans last year." She handed the address and a map to up to Dean; he perused it quickly before returning his eyes to the road.

Dean pursed his lips, "It might be worth it to check him out. If he has the cross, then we can rule out the spirit or poltergeist wanting it. Of course, then we wouldn't have _any_ clue why Marie was killed," he glanced at Sam, "but we can't go now…not with you on the verge of another…whatever they are." _Was 'attack' the right word?_

Sam looked back at him with a scowl, "I'm fine, Dean. We need…to run this thing down…before the trail gets cold."

"No way I'm gonna let you walk around while this freaky psychic thing can happen any minute. People might _see_ you."

Sam flinched and looked away, clearly hurt. Dean instantly regretted his choice of words. The last thing Sam needed to feel was that Dean thought his little brother was some kind of freak.

"Ah, Sammy, you know I didn't mean it like _that_. It'll just draw unwanted attention is all. We don't need people calling 911 because you're moving things around without touching them."

Sam turned back to him sullenly, still holding his head, "Then what can we do? You need to…check this guy out."

Dean frowned at the way Sam said '_You _need.' He tried to smooth things over, using the only tactic he knew usually worked, "Oh, I get it. You plan these headaches out so I'll have to do all the footwork. Smart thinking, bro…you almost got this one by me."

Sam eyes flitted to the road, then back to Dean. A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth, "Well…you know me…anything to get out of work…."

Dean grinned and focused on the road for a few minutes before Sam started talking again. _Is it my imagination, or does he sound worse than before?_

"Well? How do we…handle this? If I can't…go along, I mean?"

Dean frowned; he wasn't sure what to do about that. The hotel they were staying in was in the opposite direction of where they were heading. Sarah chimed in from the back seat while reaching up to hold Sam's shoulders.

"Well…um, you did promise Dean you'd get a haircut a few weeks ago," she said quietly, pointing out the front windshield.

Dean followed her gaze, finding one of those walk-in barber shops along the street up ahead. He turned a smirk to Sam, _Heh…perfect_….

"You know, she has a point Sam---"

"Don't, Dean---"

"You did promise. Remember? Back in New York?" when Sam stared defiantly out the window, Dean brought out the heavy artillery, "Am I gonna have to start calling you the 'Shaggy Dog' again?"

Sarah let out a chuckle, earning a pained glare from Sam, "Whose side are you on?"

Dean rescued her from answering, "Hey, it's perfect. We can check out this art dealer while you're in there. It keeps you out of trouble for a little while, **and** you get to fulfill a promise," his smirk grew, "kinda makes you feel all warm inside, doesn't it?"

Sam folded his arms over his chest, "Shut up."

Dean felt his grin intensify despite himself, and pulled over to park in front of the barber shop. He didn't particularly want to leave Sam here, nor leave him out of the investigation…but with another psychic incident about to appear, Sam needed to be kept away from prying eyes. With the hotel too far out of the way, this seemed to be as good an idea as any. He got out and ushered his brother out of the car.

Sam stumbled a bit getting out, probably because of his headache. Dean followed him inside. They were greeted by an attractive young woman at the front desk.

"May I help you?" she said sweetly.

Dean smiled, stepping forward in front of Sam, "I certainly hope so," he began, but paused when he heard Sam mutter '_sixteen'_ in his ear, "…um, my brother…he needs a haircut, and we were hoping you had an opening," he finished awkwardly. _Dammit, the cute ones are always too young_….

He threw an annoyed glance back at Sam, who had managed a snicker even through the pain. Sam shrugged weakly, before looking back to the girl.

"Okay, um, let me see…Eva will be done with her client in a few minutes. She's in the back right now, but you can have a seat at her station, she'll be back soon."

Dean led Sam over and plopped himself down into one of the two salon chairs; Sam eyed him before sitting himself.

"I thought you were leaving?"

Dean shrugged, suddenly feeling guilty for having to leave Sam behind in the first place, "I can hang around until the girl gets here…no rush."

Sam, squinting through the pain in his head, and glanced at his watch before answering, "Yeah, there kinda is, Dean. Daylight's waning, and you need to go see this art dealer and get that out of the way…plus we need to look into the history of that place before we head back to Marie's room tonight."

Dean frowned, no words forming to counter Sam's argument. Sam, however, seemed to find them for him.

"You're worried," he said quietly, "and thanks, but…you're right, I can't be helping you interview this guy and whoever else when I can barely think straight. I'm a liability."

Dean opened his mouth to protest; Sam was _never_ a liability. Sam beat him to it again.

"Dude, just go over there, you and Sarah can handle this one. I'll do this, find someplace quiet, and wait out my headache…and then we can work on getting rid of whatever's behind that closet. Okay?"

Dean bit his lip, "Alright…but if the pain gets any worse---"

"I know who to call."

Dean nodded, and was about to get up when a striking young woman with dark skin and remarkably alert eyes appeared behind them.

"Can I help you?" she asked with a thick Haitian accent to her English.

Dean noted her nametag said "EVA." He smiled and nodded in Sam's direction.

"Sammy, here, needs a haircut…like _nobody's business_," he grinned wider when he felt Sam punch his arm. She smiled and started putting away the tools she'd been using on her other customer.

Sam grabbed Dean's arm before he moved off, and spoke in a low tone, "Hey, even if this Legiere guy is no help, we should check him out anyway…if that cross _was_ stolen, and he appraised it…who knows? Maybe he…."

_Good point_, Dean thought. He nodded, "Yeah, good idea…we'll be back soon, Sammy. Stay around here," he looked at Eva before stepping away, "Buzz cut, okay?"

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Sam shot a glare at Dean's retreating form, and noticed Eva looking at him with a questioning stare, "It's _Sam_…" he said, more for her benefit than Dean's, who was out of earshot already, "and he was kidding about the buzz."

Eva smiled and motioned with her scissors, "So…?"

Sam stared at her blankly, trying to discern her meaning past the pounding in his forehead.

"So, how _do _you want it?"

"Oh. Um, the same, just a little shorter. And trim the bangs a little," he smiled awkwardly. If Dean had his way, Sam's hair would be short just like his own, but Sam never found the pseudo-military look their father had raised them on appealing at all. Once he'd been old enough to manage his own grooming, he'd abandoned that look quickly. He let Eva turn his chair to face the mirror, and Sam tried to find something to focus on besides his ever-present headache.

"Are you two boys detectives or something?" she asked as she covered him with a vinyl smock.

Eva's comment took him a little off-guard, and he stammered, "Um, no, not really...why do you ask?"

"You two were talking about the Babineaux murder weren't you?"

That got Sam's attention, "Uh, yeah. You know anything about it?"

Eva shrugged, "Only what I see in the papers. Poor thing...pushed down the stairs like that…terrible way to go."

"Yeah, I guess so…." Sam trailed off. He found the quiet _snip-snip-snip_ of Eva's scissors strangely calming. He found that listening to that took his attention off his throbbing head.

"You don't look so good, if you don't mind my sayin'."

Sam forced a small smile, "It's just a headache."

Eva went back to her cutting, "So, you didn't really answer my question…are you police?"

Sam glanced at her in the mirror, a little surprised at her persistence, "Hmm? Oh…no were not police. We were just friends of Marie is all…." _I wonder why she cares…. _He shrugged it off as an odd form of small talk.

Eva smiled with what seemed like understanding and finished her work.

"There you go, sweetie," she said brightly while removing the apron.

Sam thanked and paid her, then moved out of the shop onto the street. He spied a coffee shop on the corner and decided to wait there for Dean's return. Maybe the caffeine would help his head.

He made it all of two feet in that direction before a scream pierced the air.

He looked quickly to his right, and saw a man in his mid-twenties grabbing a little old lady's purse and take off running down the street...coming right in Sam's direction. She was standing about a block away from Sam, but he had a clear view of what was happening. One man tried to step out in front of the mugger, but was batted out of the way by the runaway thug. Sam noted that no one else was close enough to intercept the man.

Despite the yells of several people near the woman, the mugger was moving too fast…by the time any cops made it to the scene, he'd be long gone. Sam took a step towards the man, deciding to try and help. He was a pretty fast runner, and certainly capable of taking this guy down.

That's when it happened.

It felt almost like a sneeze…just with no sound and no rush of air. A silent, excruciating sneeze. Fifty feet away from him, the mugger suddenly flew sideways off his feet, smashing through the plate glass window of a delicatessen. The noise attracted more attention, and people were stopping to look at the commotion.

The pain drove Sam to his knees, but as soon as it was over, he felt the pressure in his skull dissipate almost immediately. He looked around, but fortunately the small crowd that had formed around the mugged lady hadn't noticed _his_ distress, only the mugger's. He saw a police officer jogging across the street to the scene of the shattered window, and decided to make his exit.

He made it to the coffee house and sat near a window so he could observe the mugger being arrested. The not-so-randomness of his psychic incidents was beginning to bother him. First, it had responded to a request of Dean's to turn on the television, and then to use his phone. Now it was assaulting people from down the street. He guessed he should be relieved that the person in question had been a criminal…but it still bothered him. He didn't mind helping people, but the first time it had responded to an outside command: Dean's. Was Dean the only one who could influence it…or could anybody "use" his ability? After his possession in that asylum the previous year, he didn't like the idea of strangers being able to "access" him like that.

He prayed it was only his connection to Dean that made it possible and nothing else.

His phone rang, breaking him out of his morose thoughts. He answered it, without levitating it this time. Dean's voice greeted him.

"Sammy…we have another problem."

_Great…because that's what we need right now_…. "What's going on?"

"Well, this Legiere guy we were gonna meet…"

"Yeah? What about him?"

"His secretary found him this morning, slumped over his desk. Strangled to death."

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Eva Devereaux swept up the hair around her chair, biting her lip in thought. This Sam and his friend were a complication she hadn't seen coming. She could only hope they weren't police, or she might have to take drastic measures.

"You done for the day, Eva?"

Marguerite, the sixteen year old working the appointment desk, was staring at her brightly. Eva nodded, forcing a smile.

"Yes, I'm about to go. Why don't you go tell Bill that I'm leaving for the day?"

When the somewhat-too-chipper girl complied, Eva reached down and gathered some of Sam's hair in her hand. She couldn't place it, but there was something strange about the attractive young man. She placed the clump of hair in her purse.

_Better safe than sorry._

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

_I looked through a lot of online sources for the type of undead creature we're about to get into, and tried to form a balanced, non-pop culture version for the purposes of this tale. Anything I've left out or forgotten is either my choice or my mistake, but I tried to keep it logical and basic._

_I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 4**

"What do you mean, he's dead?"

"Just what I said, Sammy…we got here and the cops were all over the place. I asked around a bit and someone told me what happened."

Sam shook his head. _This case is turning into a bloodbath_. He hadn't realized that he said it out loud until Dean spoke again, "Yeah, you're telling me."

"You said he was strangled…do you know if it was a robbery? I mean…was this cross involved?"

"Nah, don't think so from what I've been hearing here. But I think we need to follow this up," Dean answered, "which means I need to make another trip to the police station."

Sam smiled despite the grim news, "You think 'Mandy-with-a-Y' will help you again? I mean, you haven't _paid_ her for the Babineaux file yet…."

Even without seeing it, Sam knew the expression that would be on his brother's face just then, "Hey, it just means I have to make time for **two** dates before we leave town. But that works, you'll probably want some 'quiet' time with Sarah before we head back anyway…." Sam chuckled at the muffled sound of protest he heard from Sarah through the line.

"So…what now?" Sam asked.

"Well, I'll head over and work the police station again…you think you can make it to the local library? Check out the bed and breakfast and see if you can dig up anything on this cross?"

Sam checked his wallet, "Yeah, I think I can make it…meet me there in, what two hours?"

He could _hear_ Dean smirking, as odd as that was, "Better make it three, Mandy's all about the flirting."

"Well, I wouldn't want to interfere with your R&R, Dean."

"You're a good brother. I ever tell you that, Sammy?" Dean laughed, then added, "How's the headache? You sound better than you did when I left."

Sam suddenly felt awkward as his thoughts went back to the events of the last few minutes, "Gone. I…uh…I moved something else."

Dean's voice went serious, "Such as?"

"A mugger. Some guy took off with this lady's purse…I went to help her, but…well, my head acted faster and…the guy went flying into a window," Sam explained, glancing around the coffee house to be sure no one was listening.

Dean whistled, "Really? Wow. Taking on the criminal element there, Boy Wonder? Did, um, did anyone see you?"

Sam sighed, "No. Everyone was looking at the broken window."

He didn't like this…the uncontrollable power in his mind. It worried him more than he would ever tell Dean. What if he never learned to control it? What if he spent the rest of his life experiencing these psychic accidents? What if he ended up hurting Dean? Or Sarah?

Dean must have detected something in his tone of voice, "We'll figure it out, Sam. We'll get a handle on this. Don't worry about it."

Sam absently traced a pattern on the tabletop with his hand, "How can you be so sure?"

Dean didn't hesitate with his reply, "'Cause I'm the oldest."

Sam laughed at their running joke. Dean could always make him laugh, even when he didn't feel like it. He glanced at his watch. They needed to get to work. There was a lot of ground to cover before they headed back to Marie's room that night.

"Whatever, Dean…meet me at the library, I'll see what I can find, alright?"

"Will do, bro…be careful."

Sam clicked the phone off and headed to the counter. He had neglected the coffee when he first came in, but would more than likely need it if he had three hours of researching to do. He pushed aside his concerns over his telekinesis for the time being. _Maybe Dean's right. Maybe we can get control of it somehow_….

He hoped that was true.

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"How's he doing?" Sarah asked when Dean closed his phone.

Dean glanced at her, his expression serious, "Tossed a guy through a window," he said quietly, "some mugger that was stealing from a lady."

Sarah looked concerned, "Is he okay?"

_Does it sound like he's okay? He's moving things with his freakin' mind!_ Dean thought testily, but he kept his face neutral. Sarah didn't deserve to be the brunt of his personal frustration. He didn't like what was happening to his brother. He couldn't really fault Sarah for being worried, too.

"He's fine. He's gonna look into the history of the bed and breakfast while we hit the police station."

Dean started the car and pulled away from the crowd that had gathered around Legiere's shop. He drove in silence, but noticed Sarah staring at him. He glanced over after a moment, "What?"

She smiled a little and ducked her head, "You're worried about him, aren't you?"

Dean deliberately mistook her meaning, "He'll be okay; he _loves_ libraries. Practically had to tear him away from books just to get him to play outside when we were kids." _Not like me_….

"That's not what I meant," she said, her head cocked to the side.

_I really don't want to talk about this_…. "Look, Sarah---"

She laughed suddenly, and held up her hand, "I know…no chick-flick moments."

He looked at her, genuinely surprised to hear her saying that...for a moment she sounded just like Sam. He couldn't help the laugh that escaped his lips. He felt himself relax. He was a little surprised at himself, too, for feeling so _comfortable_ with the young woman. Despite spending nearly a month in Sarah's house, Dean had spent little time alone with her. What little time they had been alone had mostly been focused on Sam, as they helped him through the darkest periods of his recovery.

Sarah had been invaluable to Sam---and Dean---during the aftermath of their vampire troubles in Ohio. Sam's nightmares and flashbacks during the weeks following had taken a toll on both boys…Sam directly, and Dean by extension. Dean was fairly certain that they would have been much worse off without Sarah and the shelter she provided them. _Sam in particular_.

On top of it all, Sam seemed genuinely happy with Sarah…the first time Dean had seen him that way since Jessica's death. He figured that she in some way satisfied that feeling of 'normalcy' that Sam had craved for so long. Whatever her effect on Sam, it worked. His brother was happy. That alone indebted Dean to Sarah.

He felt a now familiar pang of jealousy deep down. He couldn't quite place it…it wasn't an emotion he normally experienced.

They rode in silence for a few more minutes before Dean surprised himself again by speaking.

"I don't like what this psychic crap is doing to him," he murmured.

Sarah simply looked at him, apparently knowing when to keep quiet. He pressed on, "After everything…Mom, Dad, Jessica, his abduction…he can't seem to catch a break…and I haven't been able to protect him from any of it."

The bitterness in his tone surprised him again.

Sarah smiled at him, "It's that last part that really bothers you isn't it?" There was no reproach in her tone, just statement of fact. He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head and turned back to the road. The police station was coming up on the left.

She was right. That was his problem. He didn't expect anyone else to understand that Sammy was _his_ responsibility…he always had been. Especially now that their Dad was gone. With a silent sigh at the morbid turns his thoughts were taking, he turned into the lot beside the police station. He switched off the car and looked at Sarah.

"I just don't want anything to happen to him. He deserves better."

Sarah smiled again, "That's really very sweet, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah…," he grumbled, "just don't tell Sam. He _lives_ for these Lifetime movie moments." With a smirk, he got out and headed for the building. He glanced back when he heard Sarah call out.

"What am I supposed to do while you're…you know…on the inside?"

He grinned…. _That sounded mildly dirty_.

"Call your dad. See if he knows anything else that could help us."

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Sam awoke to find himself…somewhere that wasn't the library in which he'd been sitting. That much was certain. The smell of stale air and mold assaulted his nostrils. He looked around, trying to place where he'd seen this room before. The walls were made of wood…and blackened with some sort of fire damage.

_The room we found behind Marie's…._

He smelled blood…and a loud cracking sound startled him. He moved forward in the darkness, pushing towards the sounds. He groped through the dark until he entered a larger room beyond the narrow passageway he and Dean had found. The room was lit by old fashioned oil lanterns. In the dim light he saw a figure hanging from chains that looped down from the ceiling. He shuddered at the sight, reminded all too viscerally of his own recent captivity and mistreatment. Oddly the feeling wasn't as overpowering as it had been earlier.

Holding his breath without knowing why, he circled around the figure that hung helplessly before him. Before he could find the person's face, he heard the sound again. When the body writhed silently in pain, he realized that it was the sound of a whip. He looked for the attacker, but saw no one. He finished moving around the victim, wanting to help but unsure what was happening or even if he should intervene. He finally saw a face.

It was Dean.

Horrified, he rushed forward to help his brother, but it was like the floor was made of quicksand. The more he struggled forward, the harder it was to move. He cried out to Dean, but couldn't hear the answer.

He felt hands closing in around his neck….

Sam awoke with a start and jumped out of his chair. The chair hit the floor with a bang that echoed through the mostly empty library. He looked around wildly, trying to get his bearings.

"Sam? You okay? Oh, God, I didn't mean to scare you," a voice soothed from behind him.

He spun to find himself face to face with Sarah. He panted, trying to catch his breath, "S-Sarah? What are you--- What time is it?" He looked down at his watch.

5:15 PM.

He must have dozed off. He looked down at the table and found the old newspaper records he'd been going over…the last time he remembered seeing on the clock was 4:35.

"I…uh…I fell asleep," he said somewhat sheepishly.

Sarah chuckled, "I can see that. Come on, Dean's outside."

He closed up the books, gathered his small notebook and followed her out to the car. Dean was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel; he looked up impatiently as Sam neared the car.

"I should know better than to leave you alone with books…."

Sam didn't answer the barb as he sank into the front seat; he was still trying to shake the images from his nightmare. _Was it a vision?_ _Is Dean going to get hurt?_

Dean was staring at him with a familiar look of suspicion in his eyes. _Damn him for always picking up on when I have these things…._

"So…what took so long in there?" Dean asked.

Sam fumbled for an answer, but Sarah saved him from having to admit to having a nightmare, "Sleeping Beauty here was trying to research through osmosis."

Sam shot her a glare, but there was no heat behind it. He was glad that she was throwing Dean off the trail long enough for him to try and piece together what the dream meant. He needed to warn Dean, but also needed to know what he was warning him against, otherwise, he might lead Dean into the very danger he was trying to avoid. _God I hate these visions…they're so fucking confusing…._

They grabbed some Chinese take-out and headed back to the hotel to eat and discuss what they'd found. Dean poured over the police reports Mandy had copied for him…all the while stuffing General Tso's chicken in his mouth as fast as he could chew. Sarah was poking around some soup and egg rolls. Sam, on the other hand, didn't feel like eating after what he'd seen. He wasn't sure if his lack of appetite stemmed from _having_ a vision, or from what he'd seen _in it_. Either way, he made a show of eating some rice. He'd learned the hard way over the past month that _not_ eating in front of Sarah and Dean when they were together was a one-way ticket to Lecture-ville.

His ears perked up at Dean's mention of Richard Legiere's murderer.

"Marie? It says _Marie_ killed Legiere?"

"Mm-hmm. Security cameras caught her entering the art shop and strangling him. Problem is," Dean produced another page with a dramatic flourish, "that Marie was already dead. They found her at the Benoits' Sunday _morning_, about the time we were leaving New York. Her body was on its way to the medical examiner by noon. Legiere was killed…by Marie…about five in the afternoon."

Sam was perplexed, "Shape-shifter? Some kind of doppelganger, maybe?"

Dean smirked, "I think it's a little creepier than that…Marie's body disappeared from the morgue sometime after she was dropped off."

Sam cocked his head, comprehension dawning, "Oh man. Zombie?"

"Looks like it," Dean got off the bad and popped a video tape he'd gotten from Mandy into the player under the television. It clearly showed Marie Babineaux up and walking around hours after she was found dead. Sam noticed, though, that her body movements were…off. Dean picked up on it too.

"See the way she's walking," he said, pointing to the screen, "and that weird way that her neck looks out of alignment?"

"Like it had been broken, and straightened back out later…." Sam confirmed with a look of revulsion on his face.

"Um…eww," Sarah chimed in, "Who or what would do that?"

Sam turned to her, remembering suddenly that she wasn't as used to these things as he and his brother were, "Oh. Well, zombies are usually created. Certain voodoo sorcerers can use powders and potions to reanimate dead bodies and use them as slaves…"

Dean took up the description, "Most of the stuff in movies is crap. But the way you kill them is the same, shoot or cut off the head, killing the brain. Fire wards them off, well, _sometimes_ it does...it depends. They don't usually eat people unless whoever's controlling them wants them to…and it's not contagious."

"And Marie was turned into one of these things?" Sarah asked slowly.

Sam looked over at her, "Yeah…sounds like it. Probably by the same person that killed her. Which still leaves the question of who killed her and why?"

"Still number one on our list…." Dean answered wryly.

"Did they find Marie's body?" Sarah asked. Dean shook his head.

"Nope. She…_it_ left the store after Legiere died, and no one's found anything yet."

"Great…a dead body's wandering the streets," Sarah said, looking more than a little freaked out.

"With any luck, whoever did this only wanted her to kill Legiere. But why?" Sam said, and then looked at Dean, "Did the police know anything about the cross?"

Dean shook his head, "They inventoried everything in the shop. A handful of paintings, some jewelry, a sculpture…no crosses or gold of any kind," He looked at Sam, "You find anything on the Benoits' place?"

"Heh, yeah. It has a pretty dark history. It was originally a mansion, built here in the early 1800s by a Doctor Benjamin LaSalle. That's the guy I saw in the picture. He was a doctor by trade but also dabbled in imports and even some plantation farming. He owned about a dozen slaves, mostly from the Caribbean."

"Sounds normal enough for that time period, so far…." Sarah said.

Sam let out a humorless laugh, "It would, except he apparently liked to dabble in other things too…'scientific experiments' and taxidermy, to be exact."

Dean grimaced, "Why don't I like where this is going?"

Sam continued, "One day in the 1820s, the mansion caught on fire. LaSalle wasn't home. Firefighters doused the blaze, but when they went in they discovered that LaSalle's servants and slaves had died upstairs from the fire and smoke inhalation. But some of them were dead _already_…before the fire started. Seems our doctor performed his experiments on live subjects. Lobotomies; removal of eyes and sections of flesh; mouths and eyes sewn shut…all kinds of demented stuff."

Sarah looked ill, "That's a great after dinner story, Sam," she quipped…though she actually looked sick. Sam reached out and placed his hand on her arm to comfort her.

Dean shook his head, "Well, I think we've found our angry spirit. What happened to the doctor?"

"Locals ran him out of town. He ended up moving to one of his summer homes in New England and even managed to avoid prosecution. He died in the 1840s and was buried outside Providence," Sam sighed. "The thing is, Dean, there's been no hauntings or ghost sightings in the mansion. _Nothing_. It was rebuilt into a hotel around 1900, changed owners a few dozen times over the years, and wound up being converted into the bed and breakfast it is now during the 1960s."

"And no one ever reported anything?"

"Not a thing. The fire damage was painted over and the slave quarters were walled up, split into separate rooms and apparently forgotten. From the blueprints I found archived, it looks like the entrance to the old slave rooms that we found in the closet was the only one that wasn't boarded up."

Dean frowned, "Any ideas on why it took so long for the ghosts to appear? And why would a ghost be banging around in there now if not before?"

Sam shook his head, his frustration weighing down on him. "I don't know. The fire should have prevented it. The human remains left in there were already burned…and the others were given religious burials in a predominantly Haitian church that used to be located near here. As to why _now_…." He could only manage a shrug as a response to Dean's second question.

Sarah broke the silence suddenly, "Wait a minute, guys…back up. You said someone brought Marie back as a zombie, right? God, that sounds too weird when I say it…."

Sam looked at her quizzically, "Yeah."

Sarah smiled a little, "Well, okay…we've got a relic hunter who is apparently murdered, a missing cross, and a dead art dealer. The only connection between the two…as far as we know…is the cross, right?"

Sam looked at Dean, who shrugged and turned back to Sarah, "Sounds about right."

Sarah continued, "Is it possible that whoever brought Marie back from the dead…also brought this ghost back? Maybe they _used_ the ghost to kill Marie. Is that…I mean, can someone _do_ that?"

Sam looked at Dean, who looked thoughtful.

"Revenge killing…Marie probably took the cross, and someone wanted it back bad enough to kill her. They knew about this house…and that Marie was there, and summoned a spirit to kill for 'em. It's possible," Dean said.

Sam nodded, "Okay, but they still leaves who? I checked out the Benoits…they moved here from Mississippi about thirty years ago, and bought the place about ten years after that. They've never been in trouble with the authorities, and haven't been involved in anything that would warrant _our_ attention."

Dean shook his head, "Well, we can figure out the 'who' later. First thing we should do is get rid of this spirit before anyone else gets hurt. That means we go in tonight, before the Benoits come back and the cops let the place reopen."

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They arrived around midnight. Dean took a moment to glance at his brother as he parked near the bed and breakfast. He had chosen a secluded side road where the car would be obscured by bushes and shadows.Sam appeared calm and alert, as he always did on hunts. But, it was obviously a front. On the ride over, Dean had noticed the thin film of sweat and the paleness that had crept onto Sam's skin…tell-tale signs that another psychic incident was imminent.

When he couldn't delay the discussion any longer, he turned and spoke for the first time since they got in the car, "Sammy…you wanna wait?"

Sam looked both startled and confused by the sudden words, "What?"

"You're about to…I don't even know what to call these things!" Dean blurted, overcome by his frustration. When Sam cringed, Dean's frustration was replaced by guilt.

"I'm sorry, I just…are you okay, Sam? We can put this off if something's about to happen."

Sam looked down for a moment before answering, "No."

Dean's brow creased, "No? No what?"

Sam smirked, "No, I'm not okay. And no, I don't want to wait," when Dean started to answer, Sam cut him off, "Look, I've been thinking about this all day. I can't do this job if…I can't watch your back if I get sidelined every time one of these headaches hits me. I _won't_ get sidelined."

Dean did protest this time, "I don't need you to watch my back Sam---"

"But _I_ need to be able to, Dean. _I_ need to. What would you say if our positions were reversed? Would you let me go into something alone if you were the one with this fucking crap in his head?"

The venom in Sam's tone stopped Dean short. He'd only been concerned with what these psychic abilities were doing _to_ Sam. He knew that Sam worried about the visions, and deep down still worried about becoming something like Max, but he never really considered the fact that Sam might _resent_ them so much. And Sam was right, if Dean was the one in pain, he'd never let it get in the way of watching out for Sam.

"Alright," he replied grudgingly, "but if it starts to get bad, tell me and we're getting out of there. I don't want you going out of commission when we confront this thing."

Sam nodded, "Fair enough."

They got out and, checking to make sure they were alone, circled to the trunk to gather their weapons. Dean loaded one of the backpacks with salt cartridges and two of the sawed-off shotguns. He packed the lighter fluid too, just in case, but he knew it would be difficult to burn anything inside without bringing the old building down on top of them. He reached down and retrieved two handguns, offering the .45 to his brother, along with a load of normal bullets. Sam looked at him curiously.

"Someone or something summoned this ghost…we need 'em in case we find whoever it is inside," he explained.

Sam nodded grimly, and took the offered weapon. Dean pocketed his final choice, the EMF, and closed the trunk. He led the way up the stone walk in front of the building. The small courtyard was even more ominous looking at night. He kept alert for danger as they approached, but stopped when he realized that Sam had stopped a few feet back. Turning, he found Sam staring up at one of the tall angel statues that flanked the walkway.

"Dean…."

Dean slowly moved back to Sam's side and followed the younger man's gaze upwards. He stiffened when he saw what had caught Sam's attention. He tentatively moved his hand out and slowly waved it towards the house. The eyes of the stone angel followed his movements. When he dropped his hand, the inhuman eyes met theirs. A quick glance around confirmed that the other angel statues were watching them as well.

He glanced at Sam with a look of disgust, "Man, I _hate_ that creepy shit!"

Sam nodded in agreement, "Looks like the haunting is getting more powerful."

Dean held Sam's gaze for a moment, then turned and continued on towards the house. Sam followed this time. He didn't like the implications of the statues watching them…what if they were _expected_.

_Can't dwell on it. _

They approached the side door cautiously, drawing the salt-loaded shotguns. Dean tested it, finding it locked. He nodded to Sam, who set to work picking the lock. He felt oddly relieved. At least, with the door locked as it should be, it wasn't an obvious trap. But, on the other hand, they'd been tricked before. He squashed his emotions, letting his hunting instincts take over. As much as this hunt was beginning to worry him, and as he noticed every pained breath and grunt he was hearing from Sam, he couldn't let it interfere. He had a job to do. _They_ had a job to do.

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Eva dared to poke her head out from the row of bushes near the road. She had barely made it out of sight when the two men she'd discovered looking into Marie's death drove by. She had intended to come here and finally remove the evidence of what had happened to Marie. She hadn't counted on the two strangers showing up in the middle of the night.

As she watched them disappear into the bed and breakfast, she opened her tome and began reciting the spell she had used to anger the spirit of the dead servants. Her hands began to sweat as she clutched the old Rosary that she had recovered from the slave's remains. She was walking a dangerous line. She needed the old beaded object in order to focus the rage of the spirits inside…but if she lost control of the spell, she was placing herself in mortal danger.

She didn't _want_ to kill anyone else, but these two detectives…or whoever they were…needed to stop poking around this incident. Maybe a brush with the vengeful residents inside would convince them to flee. Maybe then this could all be over.

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Sam's head was killing him. The throbbing behind his eyes had grown many times worse when they had entered the old building. He struggled to hold in the shallow breaths, though, knowing that Dean would be on the lookout for any sign that he was in trouble. He meant what he had said; he refused to let these headaches and psychic events from controlling him. And he sure as hell wasn't going to let them endanger his brother by keeping him out of the fight.

He had to place his free hand on a wall to stave off a wave of vertigo, but managed to make it look nonchalant when Dean glanced over. Or so he thought.

"It's getting worse?" Dean asked, matching Sam's nonchalant appearance.

Sam's mouth dropped open slightly, surprised by Dean's prescience, as he always was. He just nodded, then pushed off the wall and pointedly walked further towards the stairs. He heard Dean following quietly.

They were halfway up the stairs when Dean began quietly ranting, "You know, you're one stubborn bastard…you know that? I got the looks, the charm, the hair…you got Dad's mule streak…."

Sam rolled his eyes, but instantly regretted the motion, since it made the pain in his head spike. He grunted and grabbed onto the railing. Dean was at his side immediately, concern radiating off of him. Sam raised his head and shot Dean a look.

"You shouldn't make…fun of people when they're in pain," he stated, then added with a smile, "Jerk."

Dean shook his head and sighed, "Let's get this over with so I can get you out of here. Bitch."

They made it up to the third floor without incident. Moving silently into the hallway, they crept forward, guns drawn, and moved towards Marie's room. As they walked, Sam noted that the EMF in Dean's shirt pocket, its sound muted, was flashing wildly…a far cry from the intermittent blips of that morning.

Just as they arrived at Room 8, they heard noises inside the room. It sounded like something bumping into the furniture…and the walls. Dean reached for the doorknob, but froze when more noise was heard from the room across the hall. Sam looked over…Room 7. It was a lighter sound…not as substantial as the first. With a frown, he glanced back at Dean, who was looking at the same door with apprehension. Sam was about to suggest that they ignore it and check out the first room, but another sound emanated from the new room, and he stopped.

"Let's…split up. Maybe we can catch this thing by surprise…you know, on two fronts…." Sam whispered. Dean shook his head.

"Dude…I don't know about that…."

Sam frowned, suddenly feeling exasperated with Dean's overprotective nature. It wasn't like they didn't split up on hunts all the time. Nothing was different now. _It's just a fucking headache Dean!_

"Dean, I'm fine. We can split up and maybe flush this thing out."

Dean looked like he was going to protest, but clamped his mouth shut with an audible noise. His face took on a look that was half-resigned, half-annoyed.

"Fine. Go. But if you get in trouble I'm not saving your ass!" Dean whispered harshly.

Sam grimaced, but moved to the opposite door. He stopped and turned when Dean tapped his shoulder.

"Sam…" he trailed off. _Be careful_.

Sam smiled back at the unspoken advice, "You too."

Sam turned the door handle and silently entered Room 7. A quick glance confirmed that Dean had done the same and entered Marie's room. He went back to scanning the new room for anything unusual.

The room had clearly been occupied recently. A few used towels were draped over the dresser, and the wastebasket had not yet been emptied. Otherwise the room was clear. He stepped further inside, and noticed that the window was open. A light breeze was causing the curtain to billow out and move a clothes hanger that was hanging on the closet door. The motion was causing the hanger to hit the wood, obviously causing the noise that they had heard in the hall.

Sam let out a sigh of relief. This room was clear. He rubbed his eyes, trying to will away the growing pain in his skull. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, and then turned to leave. He ran smack into Marie Babineaux.

He gasped and started to step back, alarmed at her proximity, but before he got even one step, Marie's hands shot forward with amazing speed and locked around his neck.

He tried to call out to Dean, but found his air passages completely choked off. He clawed frantically at her hands and arms, but she was unnaturally strong. The shotgun clattered to the floor. _Dean! Help!_

Darkness began to creep into Sam's vision.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_Thanks for the continuing support. I was worried that the last chapter might be a little "talky," but it seemed to work. Relieved_

_I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 5**

Sam struggled against the vice like grip around his neck. He couldn't get any air, and lightheadedness was setting in fast. Lightheadedness apparently didn't mix well with his psychic migraine, either, since the erupting pain in his head was making him want to scream. The hard wood floor cut into his shoulder blades as he pushed against the zombie's arms.

He knew he was nearing his end if he didn't get her off of him soon. With a burst of adrenaline-fueled strength, he managed to pry the dead woman's iron-like arms away…just long enough to suck in air frantically and get out one word.

"**D-DEAN!**"

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When Dean entered Marie's room, he stopped cold. Every loose object in the room, save the furniture, was floating in mid-air and revolving around the center of the room. He ducked as a lamp went flying by. _What the hell? _It reminded him of a movie…but he couldn't remember which one…he'd have to ask Sam.

He didn't like splitting up like this, especially when Sam's headache was clearly worsening. With the statues watching them come in, and now the sounds coming from more than one room, Dean was getting the sinking feeling that this was a trap. Either that, or things had gotten more out of hand with this angry slave spirit. Whatever was going on though, the secret area behind Marie's room was obviously the focal point. He noted with some dismay the light behind the closet door. It was the flickering of flames, but there was no smoke.

_What the hell are we walking into here?_

"D-Dean!"

He spun around at the sound of Sam's desperate shout. _Crap! _

He took a step towards the door only to have it slam in his face, cutting off his exit. The temperature in the room plummeted, causing his breath to fog, and the circling objects accelerated. Some of the smaller ones started flying closer to him.

Ignoring the picture frames, keys, trays and pillows that began hitting him in the back, he threw himself at the door, trying to break it down. He lifted his gun to blow the door off its hinges, when he saw an alarm clock hurtling directly at his head. He was on the ground, dazed, before he realized what had happened or that the other objects were all heading for him.

He covered his head with his arms as the projectiles landed.

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Sam's brief respite from the strangle hold lasted all of two breaths before Marie, or rather, her reanimated corpse, reasserted its hold. Once again without air, and with the rush of adrenaline already beginning to fade, Sam's eyes flitted around desperately for a weapon. He could barely think straight, what with no air and the pain in his head lancing through him with every slowing heartbeat.

_Sorry, Dean…I guess you were right about…splitting up…._

He looked back at Marie's dead eyes, his vision blurring and the strength in his arms fading fast. This was beginning to look like The End.

_This is it? It doesn't even hurt that much…. _He felt a twinge of regret at not saying goodbye to Dean and Sarah. Somehow, the thought of not talking to Dean one last time hurt worse.

His headache suddenly consumed all of his attention. The intensity of the pain caused him to see stars, and a wave of dizziness descended onto his oxygen-deprived mind. He felt the not-quite-sneeze-like feeling pass through him…and Marie's hands flew open.

Gasping for air, Sam could only stare open-mouthed as Marie was flung backwards by an invisible force. She…it…landed in a heap against a bookshelf, causing most of the shelf's contents to tumble down on top of her. She/it didn't move. _I guess gender pronouns don't mean much at this point…. _

Sucking in air as quickly as his bruised throat would allow, Sam crawled slowly back towards the bed. Marie hadn't moved for a few moments, and Sam thought maybe it had been knocked unconscious…it that was even possible with these creatures. The only things he knew about these things came from the sporadic entries in his Dad's journal. The rustle of books and paper drew his attention back across the room. The zombie was trying to pick itself up out of the pile that Sam's mind had flung it into.

Sam lifted himself off the floor using the bed for support, still trying to get his brain working after the near suffocation. He looked around hurriedly, trying to find where the .45 had landed when he had fallen on the floor.

_Where the hell is it?_

He spotted it, lying just under the chair closest to the door. Unfortunately, it was only about six feet from where Marie had now regained her feet. Steeling himself, he did what Dean had taught him so many years before: _when you're fighting at a disadvantage: **attack**. It keeps the bad guys off balance_.

Retrieving the sawed-off shotgun from the floor by the bed, he lunged forward, spinning and catching the zombie with a vicious roundhouse kick. It stumbled backwards from the blow, but didn't go down. Before it had time to react, he raised the salt-loaded gun to chest height and pressed the trigger. Marie flew backwards into the remains of the bookshelf, this time falling to the floor. The salt wouldn't kill the creature, but it might slow it down. He pushed aside uncomfortable memories of the last time he had fired rock salt into a human body and the sad consequences of that action.

_This isn't Dean, this is different. Get the handgun!_

He turned and sped toward the door and the .45 he needed to end this fight. But he neglected to remember that rock salt rounds merely "hurt like hell," and zombies, so far as they knew, didn't feel pain.

He felt Marie hit him in the back with alarming speed and power. This wasn't one of Hollywood's lumbering brain-eaters; this was an undead killing machine. He slammed full force into a vanity, shattering the large mirror, and slicing his forearms open as he tried to protect his face from the shards. They fell to the floor in a heap of arms, legs, broken glass and someone's personal belongings.

Pushing himself onto his back so as to face his attacker, he brought the butt of the shotgun around with all his might and delivered a bone-shattering blow to Marie's skull. She…it, he kept reminding himself that she was an "it" now, didn't react the way he thought it would. Her head was tilted crazily to the side, and he realized that he must have re-broken her neck. But that didn't prevent her from trying to get her hands around his throat again.

He frantically used every fighting move he could think of, and instinctively used about a dozen more, all to keep her hands at his arms' length. Her strength hadn't diminished at all, while he was sweating from exertion and moving on pure fight-or-flight instinct.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it up.

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_This is gonna leave a mark_… Dean though grimly as he felt dozens of small wall decorations and Marie's leftover belongings pelt his sides, back and legs. Keeping his head tucked between his shoulders, he combat crawled for the door. He had to get out of this room. He had to get to Sam. For a few moments, as he reached the door frame, he thought he might just make it out of there.

As he reached for the doorknob, an invisible hand gripped his ankle.

_Ah, crap…_.

It yanked him back and sent him flying into the wall over the bed. He landed on his back in the middle of the bed. _Could have been worse_….

Before he could move, the grip returned and he was sent hurtling against the wall beside the closet door. Landing, with an "oof," he immediately crawled back towards the bed, and grabbed the shotgun he had dropped when he left the ground. He rolled over, and as the invisible grip returned, he aimed at the seemingly empty air above his feet and fired. The rock salt peppered the area in front of him, and he saw the air shimmer and heard a loud pop. The grip disappeared.

With a sigh, he heaved himself up and made for the door. The old wood was heavily damaged from his earlier beating…it probably wouldn't take much to get out now. He hadn't heard Sam again since that first yell, and that was probably a very bad sign. As he reached the door, he heard the sound of a shotgun being fired from the next room. He rushed the last remaining distance to the door and reached for his handgun. He took aim at the door.

The sound of the closet door creaking open stole his attention before he could fire. He turned, but before he was able to see anything, he felt himself being lifted bodily off the floor and speeding toward the open closet. He bounced off the walls on either side of the narrow passage, banging his head so hard against the wood paneling that he saw stars. He entered the larger hidden room at breakneck speed, barely noticing that the old oil lanterns along the walls were now lighting the old room dimly despite their age. He flew into the old cot, shattering the rotted wood with his body and scattering the dusty remains of the old slave into various corners of the room.

_Sammy_….

The last sound he heard was the outer doors of the closet slamming shut. The last coherent thought that passed through his mind before he blissfully lost consciousness was that Sam was on his own.

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Sam was losing. His efforts to keep Marie away were failing fast. His shirt was covered in the blood that was leaking steadily from the long gashes in his arms. He knew he had to address the damage done by the collision with the mirror soon, or he would lose too much blood. The effects of blood loss were already becoming apparent in his ever more sluggish movements. Worse yet, his headache had not disappeared with the telekinetic burst that saved him from suffocating. The pain was still spiking through his head with every breath…making it harder to concentrate on defending himself. But whereas he was tiring out, the zombie didn't seem phased at all.

He needed to stop this thing _now_. With some effort, he managed to disentangle his legs from the zombie's…and brought his feet up against its stomach. He pushed forward with a mighty heave and used the leverage that his long legs provided to fling the creature off of him and halfway across the room. Not sparing the seconds to look, he rolled towards the door and grabbed his .45 from under the chair. He rolled around and brought the gun up in one fluid motion. The zombie was already nearly on top of him again, but he wasted no time. He fired.

The bullet caught his opponent dead center on the forehead. He could hear the sickening sounds of bone splintering and brain matter compressing. It didn't go down right away, just stumbled backwards. He squeezed off another round, placing it very near the first and completing the destruction of the top of the zombie's head. It fell to the ground with a lifeless thud.

Panting, Sam slowly rose to his feet. He kept the gun pointed at the unmoving corpse and stepped over it. He berated himself for not keeping his distance. He was executing the classic horror movie mistake of getting too close to a supposedly dead villain, but he needed to get to the stack of clean towels he had seen beside the bed. He cursed Dean's taste in horror movies anyway, which was making him question his actions…real life wasn't like that. _It's often worse…. _

He wrapped his slashed arms with two of the thinner towels, keeping an eye on the zombie. He applied pressure to his wounds, but couldn't get the longest gash to stop oozing blood. _Must have nicked a vein_.

He focused on the corpse for a moment, remembering that this thing was once a young woman, who probably had no idea what had happened to her. He **hoped** she didn't. _Rest in peace, Marie_.

He took a moment to survey the room, noting the near total destruction of the outlying furniture, and mirror shards that covered the floor, and the alarming amount of blood…both from his own wounds and the zombie's mostly exploded head. _This isn't_ _good_. The Benoits would certainly discover this and the police might be able to identify **his** blood along with Marie's. That was bad news all around.

He and Dean would have to---

_Dean?_

He suddenly realized that Dean should have been able to hear the gunshots.

_Why hasn't he come across the hall to investigate?_ Unless….

Hurriedly wrapping the towels around his arms and wiping some of the blood from his face and brow, he gathered up both his weapons and leapt over the zombie's unmoving corpse. He burst out into the hallway, stopping only when he realized that the door to Marie's room was sealed shut. The wood was cracked on the outside, as if someone or something had been beating against it. Sam's mind placed the reason for him.

_Dean was trying to get out._

Alarmed, he steadied himself, and kicked at the door. He shook off the wave of pain that throbbed through his head with each kick. There was no time to worry about his head. He concentrated his blows along the same area where the wood was weakened. It gave way quickly enough, and it didn't take much more effort to force the rest of the door open.

The sight that greeted him brought him up short. Everything inside, even debris of some battle he supposed Dean must have waged, was circling the center of the room in mid-air. The air was freezing cold, so much so that the windows were fogged and ice was forming along the window ledges. Shivering, he stepped further inside. The objects that had been floating by placidly began to pick up speed. One of them was Dean's EMF detector. It floated by Sam's face, blinking rapidly.

_Murderer…butcher…_

Sam heard the unspoken words in his head…they sounded much more threatening than they had when he'd heard them downstairs earlier. His eyes were drawn to the closet door. He heard noises from inside, and saw a flickering light, like fires or old lamps, coming from the crack beneath the door. He took a moment to reload the shotgun with spare salt cartridges he had in his pockets.

Weapon reloaded, he glanced around the room, scanning for any tell-tale signs of a spirit lurking in the room. That's when he heard the noise, a loud crack, and a muffled scream.

_…suffer by your own weapon…_the unseen voice resonated in his thoughts.

Another loud crack resounded through the walls, followed by another muffled scream…again and again. Sam moved towards the closet, gun raised. He had a sinking feeling that he knew what he was going to find in that room. He cursed himself for not warning Dean before they came here…and damn it, he didn't know why he hadn't.

_Goddamned visions…we're going back to Missouri's and I'm finding a way to get rid of them!_

When he saw others in his visions, they usually arrived too late to save them, or at least, couldn't even spare them the trauma of what he saw…whenever he saw Dean, he hesitated and Dean often got hurt. Everyone got hurt, one way or another. Enough was enough.

He reached the door, and cautiously reached out to open it. It opened with a slight creak, and he warily looked inside. Nothing. He started to step forward, when he felt something graze his back. He spun, gun raised, only to see the whirlwind of objects floating crazily by. _One of them must have hit me_…. He turned back to the closet.

A rush of air and cold blasted at him from the open closet. With a shout he stumbled back from it, only to hear a growl of rage behind him. Spinning, he saw the air shimmer in front of the bed. He had no time to defend himself before he was brutally punched with unseen hands. He went flying backwards, crashing through the old sliding door that concealed the hidden slave quarters. He went through head first, adding a blow to the skull to his list of injuries. The impact knocked him senseless and winded him.

He landed in a heap, against the wall of the narrow passage and, as he lost consciousness, cursed himself once more for not heeding his vision's warning.

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Sam slowly drifted through blackness. He felt numb. _Is that bad?_ He was warm at least…for some reason, he remembered being cold earlier and not liking it. He wondered why he wasn't wondering where he was…but figured that if he wasn't wondering it might not be too important…. The circular wording of his thoughts amused him, but his mouth wouldn't smile. He felt disconnected.

He retreated into the blissful darkness, happy for the rest. He was so tired…. He'd have to talk to Dean about taking a vacation---

_Dean._

Why was Dean important right now? Were they supposed to be meeting? _Hmm_. Where was Dean? What is that? He felt water running down his cheek. No, it wasn't water…it was too…he didn't know…but it wasn't water. He had a coppery taste in his mouth, and the smell of mold and dust assaulted him. He and Dean needed to find better hotels---

_Dean!_

Sam snapped awake, the thought of his brother bringing him out of his blissful oblivion. His eyes were greeted by a darkly lit wall, a few feet in front of him. His arms were draped unceremoniously over his head, and one of the longer gashes in one of them was dripping blood lazily down onto his face and lips. Miraculously, he still held the shotgun in his hand, somehow managing to hold onto it throughout his abrupt trip through the closed door.

His senses were slowly returning to him, along with all his aches and pains…most prominently the pain in his head, back, arms and chest. He coughed a few times, trying to clear the dust and mold out of his airways as he pushed himself to his feet and shook off the wood and debris. He had to place a hand on the wall to steady himself. A quick glance around showed him to be alone…well, as far as he could tell. He took a hesitant step deeper into the darkness. Up ahead, the flickering glow of old lamps filled the area he and Dean had found earlier.

He fumbled with the towels, trying to re-wrap his injuries, but his fingers seemed to have minds of their own. He staggered down the small passageway, lingering images from his dream coming back to him, and fueling his trip forward.

_Please let it be wrong this time…please…._

He slowly emerged into the larger room, cautiously scanning the air for any shimmering apparitions. He held the shotgun ready but kept it aimed low. The room seemed much as it had been when they first found it, except that the cot that had affected Sam so viscerally before was little more than rubble now. The most noticeable change was the large, dark object hanging from the ceiling rafters.

_Please…._

Sam silently circled the hanging object, trying to discern its features but seeing little in the flickering light. Not knowing for sure what it was, and fearful of another attack, he held his emotions in check and approached slowly. Jumping into another sudden fight wasn't on his list of good ideas just now. He kept against the wall, ducking the hanging shackles and doing his best to ignore the memories that the clinking metal cuffs drug to the forefront of his mind. He ended up near the destroyed cot, and took a step forward.

As he got closer, he was able to tell for certain that it was a person, hanging from another set of chains from the ceiling. Another step revealed that the person's head was hanging limply between his arms and shoulders. Sam couldn't see the face. Whoever it might be…Sam didn't want to admit that he thought he already knew…was clad only in a t-shirt and jeans.

One more step and he was within arm's reach of the poor soul. He reached out, his fingers barely brushing against the person's arm….

The person jumped, and howled, raising its head…it was Dean.

Sam barely recognized his own brother. Dean's face was bruised, and blood ran down from a cut at his hairline. The most horrific new feature of his brother's face was the mouth. His lips had been sewn shut. Blood stained his chin and jaws, where the lips and skin had been roughly pierced.

Dean struggled for a moment before a glint of recognition lit his eyes. He couldn't speak, but the relief at Sam's appearance was palpable.

"Oh, God…." Sam whispered. It was actually _worse_ than his dream. He shook himself out of his shock and stepped up quickly, looking for a way to unlock the shackles.

"Are you okay?" he asked, not thinking. When he glanced at Dean again, he amended, "Sorry, stupid question…let me just get this lock open---"

Sam was cut off when the room's temperature dropped to freezing within seconds. Before he could react, he was violently slammed backwards into the wall in front of Dean, above the wrecked cot. The .45 that was tucked into his waistband cut painfully into his back. He strained to move his limbs, but was held fast. The pressure holding him was so intense that he had to focus just to breathe.

_…Again…_

The air behind Dean shimmered, and the sound of something fast and deadly sliced through the cold air. Sam heard the seemingly deafening crack and could only watch as Dean writhed in pain. It took Sam's brain a few crucial seconds to piece together the sights and sounds.

It was a whip. The ghost was whipping his brother!

"No! Dean!" Sam cried. His struggle against the unseen force holding him gained strength. "No!"

Dean was struck again. He screamed…well, screamed without being able to open his mouth. The muffled sound was even more traumatizing to Sam. Dean wasn't one to scream lightly. _He must be in agony_. That thought angered him.

"Stop!"

His demand was ignored. Dean was hit again. Anger and frustration boiled over in Sam and with it came a renewed pounding behind his eyes. He was so furious he saw red creeping into his peripheral vision. No one hurt his brother! His eyes moved of their own accord, and settled on the shotgun he had dropped when he'd been pinned.

The now familiar feeling passed through his head once again, and the shotgun lifted off the floor. It moved with lightning speed around Dean and took up a place behind his abused back. Sam felt little shockwaves in his skull as he controlled the gun. Another wave of vertigo and pain assailed him as the trigger pulled back, and the left barrel blasted salt in the direction of the whipping sounds. An inhuman scream filled the air, but quickly dissipated. The discarded whip fell uselessly to the floor.

The air to Sam's right shimmered, and another spirit, probably the one that had attacked him in the bedroom, he realized, began to approach him threateningly. He caught only brief glimpses of its form, but he clearly saw a dark-skinned male amidst the flashes of skull, blood and distorted air.

The shotgun moved again, taking up station to Dean's left. The trigger pulled back, and the second barrel discharged. The second spirit was scattered by the barrage of rock salt. Another ear-splitting scream pierced the air in the enclosed space as it vanished. The temperature suddenly warmed.

Sam dropped off the wall, and the gun fell to the floor at the same time its wielder did. The hard wood sent pain lancing up through Sam's knees. He clutched his head as the last of the pressure seemed to melt out of his skull. Panting, he looked up at Dean. His brother had lost consciousness at some point. Sam willed his legs to work, and forced himself forward to get Dean out of the chains.

He could think only of getting Dean out of this hell-hole. He retrieved the shotgun and found Dean's shirt nearby. Once it was collected, he moved to his brother's limp form. He worked the chains furiously, trying to get them open. The ancient, brittle iron pin that held them shut crumbled under his grasp, and the chains popped open. Sam staggered as Dean dropped into his outstretched arms. Calling on every reserve he had left, he moved forward, holding Dean tightly and trying to ignore the wetness that covered Dean's back.

He carried his helpless brother out into the bedroom. The once floating objects littered the floor, and Sam tripped over several of the larger ones on the way out into the hallway. Dean roused slightly, a soft and muzzled moan slipping out.

"Hang in there, bro…we're almost out of here," Sam assured him quietly, with more confidence than he actually felt. Dean, if he even heard, didn't reply.

The stairs proved more difficult than Sam had anticipated…carrying his brother's weight in one arm and using the other to steady the rapid descent. Even with the rush of adrenaline that let him carry Dean one-armed, by the time he reached the bottom floor his heart was racing and his limbs felt like rubber. Only sheer force of will kept his muscles clenched and Dean secure.

He made it outside and to the car, ignoring the pointed stares of the six angel statues in the courtyard. Was it his imagination, or were they each standing in a different pose now?

He fumbled with the door locks, but finally managed to get Dean into the back seat. He positioned his brother carefully, so that his back wouldn't press against the seat. There was no need to hurt Dean any further. His own silence this afternoon had done enough….

The exhaustion began to catch up to him, and he had to steel himself and force his legs to operate as he ran around to the other side of the car. Briefly glancing at his watch, he was dismayed to find the time to be after 3:00 AM.

_I must have been unconscious longer than I thought_…. He mused as he scrambled into the driver's seat. His heart sank when he realized that it meant that Dean had suffered much longer than he had thought too. He glanced back at the bed and breakfast, considering burning the place to the ground right now and putting an end to all this. The irony wasn't lost on him that he was usually the restrained one…and burning a building just to kill a ghost was akin to that old saying about curing diseases by killing patients.

He floored the gas and steered for the hotel. All he could think about was that he needed to get Dean away from here.

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Eva watched as the two men fled the house. They looked to be pretty badly hurt. She bit her lip, hating that things had gone this far.

But she was too deeply involved to turn back now.

She glanced up at the third floor windows. Even from here she could see the objects floating in the bedrooms again, and the statues in the courtyard were moving more than their eyes now. It was too dangerous to go back inside, now that the two investigators had angered the spirits even more than her spell had.

She'd have to come back tomorrow.

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Sarah rested uneasily against the headboard of the bed that she and Sam were sharing. There was nothing on TV. Well, that wasn't quite true, she saw "Poltergeist" playing on one of the cable channels, but given what Sam and Dean were out doing, she couldn't bring herself to watch it.

She glanced at the clock; it was after 3:00 AM. She was tired, but was too worked up to sleep. Sam had said it wouldn't take too long…but she'd heard nothing since the boys had left…before midnight.

She knew next to nothing about how these things worked. She trusted that the Winchesters knew what they were doing…after all, they had saved her life when that freaky painting was killing people back home…but she was still anxious. She didn't want Sam getting hurt. _Dean either, for that matter_….

She was about to give into her fatigue and call it a night when she was startled by an abrupt pounding on the door. Clicking off the television, she climbed off the bed as quietly as she could and grabbed the handgun off the dresser. She had no previous experience with guns, but Sam had begged her to keep one for self-defense while she was alone, and had given her a crash course on basic gun handling before leaving the hotel earlier.

Shaking slightly, she approached the door. With her free hand she slowly undid the latch and took a deep breath. She pulled the knob and opened the door. What she saw nearly caused her to drop the gun.

Sam was standing, or rather leaning just outside the door, carrying Dean in his arms. They were both covered in bruises, cuts and blood, and Dean looked like he'd been through hell.

Sam's desperate eyes met hers.

"Help me…."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

_Hope that last one wasn't too graphic for anyone. It got a little rougher for the boys than I thought it would when I started…. _

_Anyway, we have a little bit of a breather before they dive back in._

_I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 6**

"Sam…"

Sarah reached up and brushed Sam's face with her fingers. He didn't seem to notice. He wasn't listening. He unsteadily fumbled with the first-aid kit, trying to thread a stitching needle with his shaking hands. All his attention was on Dean, who lay unconscious on the bed. Aside from a slight, muffled moan or two, Dean had not stirred.

Dean had been badly wounded by the ghost they'd gone to destroy. His back was crisscrossed with almost twenty gashes, all from the brutal whipping he'd endured during the two hours Sam had been unconscious on the floor of Marie's room. He had bruised and welts all over, and cuts on his arms and face. Worse yet, his lips were _sewn together_. Sarah shuddered at the sight of his abused face.

Sam had appeared at the hotel door about forty minutes before, carrying Dean…and barely walking himself. She hadn't been able to get the gash on his left arm to stop bleeding, and was trying to keep a towel pressed on it while Sam fought with the stitching tools. He'd mumbled something about Marie and a mirror, but he'd only been able to coherently describe what he knew of Dean's ordeal, as if his own was irrelevant.

"Sam…we have to get to a hospital. I can't stop the bleeding on this arm, and I don't think we should try and cut Dean's mouth open…we don't have the supplies for that," Sam continued to fumble with the needle. She wasn't sure if his near-catatonic state was due to the blood loss or something else. But he needed to listen to her on this. She took a page from Dean's book. She grabbed Sam's chin and forcefully turned his face to hers.

"Hey! Listen to me Sam! We can't help him _here_."

Sam blinked at her, as if he'd just noticed she was talking, "I don't want him to wake up in the hospital…not now…not so soon after last time…I gotta help him…."

"Sam…honey, what's the matter with you? He needs a doctor."

Sam just stared at her for a moment, and when he spoke, she had to strain to hear, "It's my fault…I saw what was going to happen…I didn't warn him. I don't want him to end up in the hospital because of _me_…not again."

Sarah cocked her head at that, not sure of what he was referring. The last time Dean had been hospitalized was because of a demon that had possessed their father…or so she'd been told. _How was that Sam's fault?_ _Or is he referring to something else?_

"Sam…I know you two have been through a lot lately, but he needs help. We gotta get him to a _doctor_," she stated firmly, hoping that she could sway his opinion and not have to call 911 behind his back. She wanted to respect his wishes, but she also sensed that he wasn't in a proper state of mind right now. He faltered, looking away with a sigh.

"I-I guess…o-okay…."

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Dr. Frank Robb tapped his pen nervously on his clipboard. Making rounds in the ER was always an anxious chore for him. When he'd taken over the Emergency Room at Crosby Memorial Hospital six months earlier, he had inherited a reputation of inadequacy. The standards of care were less than newsworthy…many claimed that the only department in the whole building worth its salt was the maternity ward! With the influx of hurricane refugees from the coast the previous fall, matters had only grown worse.

Robb and his assistant, Doctor Bridgers, had been brought in the previous year with a mandate of fixing a broken system, and of helping restore the hospital's public image. That was no easy task. The population of Picayune had tripled in just a few short weeks after the storms…the newcomers bringing with them the more serious crime and accident rates common in bigger cities. The already short staffed ER had been the hardest hit by the influx of new patients, but Robb's influence with the Administrator had allowed him to pull doctors from the less frequently needed Burn Wards and Cardiac Units, and that had helped improve the ER's performance.

All of that was partly why Robb felt the need to make these periodic rounds of the facility personally instead of staffing it out. If the unit was ever going to regain the high standards that the administration demanded of it, then the example had to be made from the top. So, he dutifully checked in on every doctor, staffer and patient in his facility, making sure everything was running as smoothly as possible, and offering what help he could to improve matters.

Of course, that didn't make the things he _saw_ on these rounds any easier. As an intern in Gulfport, he'd witnessed many a victim of crime and atrocity…it was something he thought he'd gotten away from when he'd been promoted up into an administrating job. But his policy of personally overseeing this ER had re-introduced him to the violent tendencies of human beings. Take these two young men in Room 114. Not much more than boys really, yet the victim of one of the most brutal attacks he'd ever seen outside of some instructional videos.

The one boy, Dean, had been horribly beaten with what looked like a horse whip, his back a bloody mess when he'd been brought in before dawn. Whoever had abused him had even sewn his mouth shut to silence his screams. It was disheartening to think that human beings could do that to each other. If his brother Sam hadn't rescued him, at the cost of his own safety apparently, given _his_ various lacerations, the boy may well have died.

Pausing at the door, Robb glanced at the younger of the two men, who'd been sitting at the elder's bedside ever since they had been moved in here, and was currently fidgeting with the bandages on his forearms. Sam seemed to be taking his brother's condition hard, even though he'd already been assured that Dean would make a fast recovery. The horror of it all must have affected the young man deeply, and Robb felt sorry for him. From his own family experience, Robb knew that it was never easy to watch a sibling suffer_. I can only imagine what this kind of attack can make a brother feel…. _

"Mr. Conner? How are we doing?" Robb asked. He forced his best smile onto his face before the boy looked up. Sam looked at him with confusion in his eyes. _Geez, the kid must be pretty messed up…he acts like that's not even his name…. _

"Oh…yeah, I'm okay Doctor. Thank you," Sam replied distractedly before turning back to his quiet vigil.

Robb glanced over at the young woman who had accompanied them in and who'd given the police the report…what was her name? Suzy? Stacy? He'd already seen about fifty people this morning, and it was barely after breakfast. All the first names were starting to run together. The young girl smiled gratefully at him, and he returned the gesture promising that the nurses would be around to check vitals soon. With a nod, he resumed his rounds. He shook his head once again at the nightmare the two men must have gone through, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Given that Sam Conner had suffered a severe concussion only a month earlier, according to the medical history supplied by the young woman, Robb wondered if bad luck followed them around. With a sigh, he resumed his morning rounds.

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_Dean awoke to the smell of antiseptic and sterilized sheets. The room was cold, and the cold made his body ache. He could hear a quiet conversation going on nearby…well, a part of one anyway. Forcing his eyes all the way open, he tried to scan the room for the source. Moving his eyes proved more difficult than it should have, but he finally got them to cooperate. He discovered the source of the voice quickly enough._

_Sam stood by the door, speaking into his cell. Dean strained to make out the words. _

_"…yeah…Oak Hills…it'll have to be next week…."_

_Oak Hills? Where had he heard that before? He struggled with his drowsy mind to place the name, but couldn't even actually remember how he got here. Was he dead? Was he watching Sam from The Beyond? He dismissed that idea. Ghosts didn't hurt this much…. _

_His mind started to clear as he listened to Sammy speak. He wasn't sure why, but the tone of his kid brother's voice broke his heart…it was so distraught…so hopeless…so…**defeated**. He began to wonder if he WAS dead after all._

_The memory struck him like a thunderbolt. Oak Hills…the cemetery in Lawrence. Where their mother was buried…what was left of her…. Why was Sam…?_

_He was in Missouri…Sam was making arrangements for their father. Dean was sure this had happened before. He was certain that he'd already awoken to this scene once before. He had the strongest feeling of déjà vu. He realized that he was dreaming. _

_I won't go through this again. This already happened. It's over. **Wake up goddammit!**_

He felt lighter than air…then heavier than a rock. He fell.

Dean's eyes snapped open, and all he could see was white. For a moment, panic gripped him, he had just come from a dream where he'd feared he was dead…and now he opened his eyes to pure white. His heart rate slowed as reality took hold. The smell of sanitizer grounded him. _Hospital…I'd know the smell anywhere_.

He blinked a few times. He was sore, but not in as much pain as he'd been in his dream-memory. He felt the need to get up and look around, but he didn't have the energy. He settled for just staring ahead at the whiteness, which he'd finally identified as the side of a fluffy white pillow, and the room wall beyond. He let his mind wander. Invariably, it wandered back to the dream.

He'd been in pretty bad shape when he'd woken up in that place. Dozens if not hundreds of sutures had been holding him together after the demon had bled him out, and no amount of pain killers could dampen the pain that filled his torso. Breathing itself had been torture. He remembered watching Sam for a while, a long while. He had wanted to speak, but his mouth had felt as if it had been filled with cotton while he slept. So he just watched. He remembered how awful Sam had looked…the kid's bruised and battered face still purple from where that demon, the Demon's son it turned out, had nearly killed him in Jefferson City. He remembered that the look of his abused face was surpassed, _far_ surpassed, by the agony visible in his eyes.

Being forced to shoot and kill their father had demolished Sam, and Dean remembered wondering to himself at the time if the incident hadn't finally killed off what little innocence his baby brother had left. Dean had been out for three or four days, and Sam had been left to his own devices during that time, which was never a good thing. Grief, guilt, and the burden of arranging for Dad's funeral alone had left little more than a shell to greet Dean when he returned to consciousness.

Worse still, Dean had been unable to help him deal with any of it. He was too stunned by what had transpired. If anything, he only made the situation worse. He had been unable to speak for those first few days after waking. Not physically incapable, but emotionally. What words could he possibly utter? His father was dead. Their quest was over. Sam had ended both, and he'd done it to save Dean's life.

He truly hadn't been angry with Sam. It wasn't in his nature to blame Sam for much. Sure, there was that whole leaving to go to college thing, but he'd gotten over that. It wasn't like he'd not seen him during those four years. He'd made a habit out of passing through and checking on him, in secret most of the time, while on the road, even when it was out of his way. Once his Dad had snidely proclaimed to him that the fastest route between Flagstaff and Portland did NOT include a detour through Palo Alto, and he had offered to buy him a map. Dean had hotly replied that he owned a map, and so long as the job had been finished, it didn't matter how much gas he used or how he got there. Some things were more important than a relatively harmless poltergeist.

No, Sam hadn't been the focus of Dean's anger. Sam had been left with no choice, and Dean dared think that he probably would have done the same thing. He was lying to himself, of course. Deep down, he knew that, if their places had been reversed, he would have looked at his father and hesitated…just a few moments longer than Sam had…and he would have lost his brother.

But he hadn't been able to voice that. He hadn't been able to voice anything for those first few days, and even though they never talked about it, Dean knew that his silence had confirmed to Sam every doubt and guilty feeling he had. Sam had taken Dean's silence as damnation…denouncement. After that perceived rejection at his brother's bedside, he had quite simply become a robot. And a much heavier drinker.

Aside from an impromptu two-day wake that they celebrated at Missouri Moseley's house after the funeral, Sam had turned as emotionless as a stone. In the weeks that followed, Dean had realized his error…he wasn't as dense as some thought. He understood the damage he'd done by not saying anything. But as the weeks wore on, he also realized that his few days of silence had opened a gulf, no a chasm, between them. More than Stanford, more than the asylum…that one had appeared _unbridgeable_.

It had taken a run-in with a gang of revenge-bent vampires, and another stay in another hospital, this time for Sam, to finally bring them back together. But to Dean, the cost had been too high. If he hadn't hurt Sam to begin with, then they never would have argued that night, he never would have left the hotel room to regain his composure, and Kate's bloodsucking thugs never would have taken his little brother. More importantly, Sam never would have suffered so much at their cruel hands. Sammy could make all the arguments he wanted about seven-to-two odds…Dean knew what he knew.

He blinked a few more times, trying to push the depressing line of thought away. Sam knew that he didn't blame him. He'd done his best to make sure of that. He refocused on the white pillow again, trying to get some bearings. _Where the hell am I anyway? Why am I lying face down in a hospital bed? _Steeling himself, he decided that it was time to move.

He started slowly. He moved his neck, which was stiffer than he thought it would be, making his job harder, and tried to see more of the room without raising his head or making any noise. After all, he didn't know what the situation was yet. He took in the rather typical hospital room fair. He saw padded but still torturous furniture, a small sink, a door which led to either a bathroom or a closet…and a large, hairy object that blocked his view.

It took his drugged mind a moment, but it dawned on him that the shaggy brown monster was, in fact, the top of his little brother's head. Sam was sleeping, or maybe passed out was a better description, on top of Dad's journal, his face smashed against one of the pages.

_Don't drool on the journal, Sammy…._

Scanning further, he noted that the side of the bed was littered with papers and news clippings that they'd been looking over in the hotel room and car earlier. _When was that? Today? Yesterday? Last week?_ He had no idea.

Sam seemed to have fallen asleep while researching…and he looked just about the most uncomfortable Dean had seen him in recent weeks. One arm was dangling limply off the bed; the other was poised over the Call Button, seemingly ready in case Dean was in need of anything.

Deciding that it was time to move a little more, Dean rolled over onto his right side…and immediately regretted it. As he shifted positions, pain lanced across his back, catching him by surprise. He gasped, unable to suppress the reaction. His back muscles seized up, adding to his agony.

His sudden sound brought an immediate reaction from his slumbering brother. Sam bolted upright, looking disheveled and off-guard.

"Dean…Dean! Are you okay?" Sam asked, rapidly coming to his feet.

Dean grimaced as the pain finally began to subside, "Argh! Yeah, I'm o---"

He moaned loudly and brought his hand to his face. His mouth was killing him. Speaking even those few words made it feel as though he'd _torn_ his lips! He looked at Sam in confusion.

"From where they took all that thread and wire out. Your mouth'll be sore for a while."

Dean blinked a few times, and then the memory came back to him. He had been strung up in that hidden room. He remembered feeling something piercing his lips and jaws, sending wave after wave of pain through his face…but it got hazy after that.

"And…my…back?" he asked, slower this time to minimize the movement of his lips.

Sam's face took on a peculiar expression, "Um…you were being whipped. The ghost was…um…it was hurting you…."

The unspoken part of Sam's description dawned on him, "You…got me out?"

Sam nodded, and sank into his chair again with noticeable discomfort. Dean stared at him a moment, trying to identify whatever was obviously bothering him, but he couldn't place it. The pain in his back was subsiding slowly, his abused muscles were relaxing, and the pressure on his injuries was fading. He settled into a barely comfortable pose, keeping his back as straight as he could, while placing his weight on his leg and side. He used one arm to prop up his pillow and looked at Sam with gratitude.

"Thanks, bro."

Sam didn't answer; he just seemed to sink in place. _What's wrong with him?_

"Why…didn't we…go back to the…hotel?"

"I…we did, but I couldn't handle the first-aid kit. Sarah convinced me to bring you here before you got any worse."

Dean frowned, that wasn't like Sam. They had patched each other up too many times to count. Sam was more than capable of han--- Dean's thoughts stopped. It occurred to him that Sam meant it literally; it wasn't that he couldn't handle the job…it was that he couldn't physically handle the tools. The reason he'd been trying to reach Sam in the first place before the ghost attacked him sprang to the forefront of his foggy memory.

"Why? What…happened…to you? What…was in…that other room?"

Sam glanced at him before returning his gaze to the bed sheet, "Marie."

_Oh, crap. The zombie…._

Dread gripped Dean, "You…okay? Hurt?"

Sam shrugged, and began fidgeting with his arm. Dean noticed the bandages for the first time. He reached out with his free hand, trying to see what had happened, but Sam recoiled as if burned. Dean's worry intensified. Sam was acting strangely…even for Sam.

"What's wrong, Sammy?" he asked quietly.

Sam shook his head, "Don't worry about me. Are you still in pain, I can call the nurse."

"I'm fine…why are you…upset?"

Sam shrugged again. _Yeah,_ _this is gonna be easy_….

Dean reached out again, slower this time, and managed to pull Sam's hand up into his line of sight. His wrists were wrapped in gauze, from the wrist to halfway-down his forearms. Tiny droplets of blood dotted the gauze where the bands overlapped. Dean tried to look at Sam's eyes, but saw only bangs…a sure sign that Sam didn't want to talk about it. _We'll see about that_….

"Cut?"

Sam made a show out of straightening the papers on the bed, "Just a mirror…got pushed into it and it broke."

Dean was afraid to attempt a smile, so he waggled his eyebrows instead, "Bad luck…"

"Can't get any worse."

"She…it…jumped you?"

Sam nodded, "Almost choked me to death, like Legiere…. Took a while but I got my gun back and…well, you know…."

"You…okay?" _Damn this talking slow crap is annoying!_

Sam got quiet again. Dean frowned, at least as much as his sore face would allow. The prodding and talking wasn't getting him anywhere, so he hit Sam in a place he knew would get results.

"Tell me…what's wrong…Sammy…_please_," he pleaded.

_Yeah, it's underhanded, but it works._

Sam looked up at him as if he'd just asked for something that was going to hurt to give. Dean's feeling of dread grew. There weren't many things that upset Sam this much…and he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear it now after all. Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably, and took a few breaths. He was obviously gearing up for something.

"I'm sorry."

Dean blinked. _Didn't expect that_….

"For?"

"I---I saw it happen…."

Dean furrowed his brow, "You mean…when I…got hurt? I kinda figured…I mean…you rescued me…."

Sam looked anguished, "No…I mean, I **saw** it. Yesterday, at the library before you picked me up."

"Oh…okay…" Dean wasn't sure what to say to that revelation.

Sam didn't like his answer, apparently.

"It's not okay, Dean! I saw what was going to happen…I should have said--- done…_something_. I let you get hurt," he blurted out angrily.

Dean just lay there, trying to process that statement through his drug-induced fog. A small surge of annoyance bubbled up through him. He wasn't sure whether the annoyance was because Sam hadn't shared the vision with him, or because Sam was once again blaming himself for something that he couldn't control. He decided that it was probably both. The fact that Sam wouldn't look him in the eye for more than a few seconds at a time annoyed him further.

"Look at me…."

Sam's eyes flitted over his face, but studiously avoided direct eye contact. It would have to do.

"Why…didn't you…say something?"

Sam, opened his mouth a few times before anything actually came out, "I---I wasn't sure what I had seen or when anything would happen. I knew it had something to do with that room…I didn't know what to warn you _about_…then the headache came back, and I…." he trailed off, looking back down at the mattress, "I'm so sorry, Dean…."

"Are you…the one…that whipped me?"

Sam looked up at him in horror, finally making eye contact, "No! Of course not! I'd---I'd never…."

Dean shrugged, moving as much as his back would allow, "Good…I'm not into…that kinky stuff…."

"Dean---"

"Sammy…did you…see that we…were going to…split up? Did you…know that the ghost…was in one room…and a zombie…was in the other?"

Sam shook his head, "No, but---"

"Then why…do you think that I…would be pissed at you?"

"I should have said _something_."

"Yeah…and we're…gonna have…to work on _that_," Dean said sourly. Sam looked chastised. Dean sighed, "Look…I don't expect you…to be able to understand…these visions. But I…want to help you…with them…if I can. You gotta stop…bottling all this up…or you're gonna force me…to _kick your ass_. Understand?"

Sam's eyes widened for a second, but then he snickered, "Yeah."

"I know…how you can…make it up to me, too."

Sam looked at him seriously, "Anything."

"Find me…an icepack. My mouth…hurts like hell."

Sam chuckled quietly, and reached for the Call Button, "I'll get the nurse."

Dean reached out and grabbed his hand, his expression stern; Sam looked back at him in surprise.

"Is…she hot?"

Sam laughed out loud this time, "Yeah, Dean. She's your type, too."

"Brunette?"

Sam shook his head, "Breathing."

Dean swatted at Sam before settling back on the pillows while Sam pressed the button.

They sat silently for a few minutes. Dean was starting to feel drowsy again, but a dull ache was slowly building in his back. He was going to need painkillers soon.

Sam stared at him for a long while before speaking, "I didn't like seeing you…like that…in that room. It reminded me a little too much of Ohio," he said quietly.

"Trust me…little brother…it didn't…look any nicer…from the inside."

The nurse knocked gently on the door as she came in. Sam asked her for an icepack and asked about some painkillers for Dean. Dean blinked, unnerved.

"How'd…you know?" he asked once the nurse had left the room.

Sam shrugged, "You were making faces…thought you might need 'em."

"Oh…well…good call," Dean muttered, "Hey…where's Sarah?"

Sam smiled, "She went to get something for breakfast. Said she'd bring something back."

"Dude…you didn't…let her take my car did you?" His lips were getting better, it seemed. _Or maybe they're just going numb_….

Sam smirked, "I should have," he sighed at Dean's glare, "but no, I _didn't_. She went up to the cafeteria."

The nurse returned, bringing Dean's icepack, some water and a few small pills in a plastic cup. Sam helped Dean lift up so he could down the pills and the water, and then guided him back down to the pillows. Once resettled, Dean pressed the ice against his mouth. He relished the cool feeling on his sore face.

Silence returned. Dean watched Sam watch him. He began to wonder if they were in some kind of worrying standoff. Sam looked a little less troubled now than he did before, but still seemed distant. Dean decided to change the subject, hoping to throw Sam into talking shop...anything to keep him from brooding. He pointed to all the papers and clippings that adorned the bed.

"What's…all this?"

Sam looked where Dean was pointing, "Oh, um, everything that we had in the backseat about this case. Sarah went out and got it a few hours ago so I'd stop pacing."

Dean couldn't help the smile that crept onto his face…though he regretted it when his lips starting hurting again. Sam was such a little worrier. He couldn't help picking on him.

"So…you're showing her…your **bad** qualities now, huh?"

Sam glanced back at him briefly before turning back to the pages, "Already did that…when I brought _you_ to her house."

"Ooh…that hurts, Sammy," Dean quipped, making sure he kept his expression light, "Find anything new?"

Sam looked sheepish, "I, uh, haven't been able to focus on it much…I keep reading the same page over and over."

"You worry too much Sammy," Dean said slowly, the painkillers were starting to kick in already. His lips felt alot better, and he was talking normally, but he felt sleep creeping up on him fast. He shook his head, trying to focus on the papers Sam was shuffling.

"Yeah, whatever, Dean---"

Sam was cut off when Sarah reentered the room, carrying two bags from the hospital cafeteria. She smiled when she saw Dean awake.

"Thank God. You had us scared for a while, Dean…"

Dean smiled, all feeling having left his face, "Just wanted some of the attention around here…you two make me jealous…." He yawned, then rubbed his mouth, "Heh…gonna feel _that_ in a few hours…." _Dammit, I think I've been drugged_….

Sam shook his head, smiling, "Dean, why don't you lie back down? I think those drugs are kicking in already…."

Dean shook his head stubbornly, "No…wanna help…."

Sam sighed and started going over some of the papers and notes they'd been collecting so far. In between bites of a sandwich, he recited Marie's history again, the golden cross, and the bed and breakfast. Dean fought to keep his eyes open, occasionally venturing a thought to the "discussion," but mostly forcing himself to listen. His mind, however, had different ideas, and kept wandering onto other topics.

He found himself wondering why Sammy's 'Shining' had picked this particular week to throw its coming out party. The visions had started more than a year ago…and the telekinesis about seven months after that. Truth be told, he didn't even have the visions that often. He'd had four visions within just a few days while they were in Michigan looking into Max. He'd had a handful in the months following, and a strong one regarding the demon in Salvation; then another two months later while being held captive, and now yesterday. The telekinesis had only shown up once before this trip…now it was an everyday thing.

What would happen if Sam got a handle on it all? When someone can manipulate people and objects with their minds…the implications were staggering. Sam would be unstoppable, at least from a hunting perspective…maybe. And the visions…if he could choose when to see the future and _what_ to see…. Dean felt envious of his brother, but he felt sorry for him too.

Sam would never…no, _could_ never…be normal. His dreams of a life away from anything supernatural would never come to pass. Even if Sammy never used his gift, chose to ignore it and stop hunting, things would always be drawn to him…would always hunt _him_. Other things would come for him, just like the demon had. It saddened Dean to think that his Sammy had been so completely betrayed by the stuff in his own head…or that he had two of them.

_Wait…what? Two heads? That can't be right---_

"Dean? Did you hear what I said?" Sam's voice drifted to him. Dean struggled to refocus on Sam. It was harder to see him now without moving his head. At some point, he had sunk back onto his stomach. The pillow was _so_ soft beneath his head…far better than any other hospital pillow that he'd ever felt. He wanted to sink into it completely. He shook his head, trying to focus on what Sam was saying.

"…I'm pretty sure that there are _two_ of them. I wasn't sure at first, but when the gun…when _I_ fired the gun at the one attacking you, another came at me from across the room. I think one was beating you while the other attacked me in front of the closet."

"So…when we go back…" Dean struggled to keep his thoughts in order, "we have to be sure we get both of them---" he yawned suddenly, cutting his sentence off. His eyelids weighed a ton….

He felt Sam's hand come down on his shoulder, "Maybe you should go back to sleep, Dean…we can finish this later, man."

Dean smiled, content to do exactly what Sam suggested, "'kay…." The world slowly faded out as his eyes closed. He saw them close, feeling detached from the outside world. But sleep eluded him at first, since he could sense Sam still rustling papers and reading. He couldn't see it, and his hearing was oddly faraway, but he _sensed_ his brother still working nearby. _Workaholic Sammy_…_you can take the boy out of the library_….

"Holy crap!"

Dean's eyes snapped open at the alarmed sound of Sam's voice. He was still tired…so tired that his eyes were actually crossed while he tried to look in Sam's direction. _Is it morning already?_ He managed to get both eyes looking at Sam, who was staring open-mouthed at a newspaper clipping.

Sam met Dean's eyes and flipped the paper over, "Dean…I know who did it!"

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

_Sorry for the delay, real life strung me up there for a bit…._

_The scene where Dean dreams about waking up after the demon battle was originally intended for "In the Pursqueeter," but because of editing or my own forgetfulness, I never got to include it in that one. I thought it would make a nice transition scene here, so I got to use it after all._

_I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 7**

"Dean…I know who did it!"

"You do?" Dean slurred, "That's nice, Sammy…."

Sam smiled incredulously, "Dean... Dean?" He touched Dean's shoulder, only to find his brother sound asleep. _I guess the pills finally won…._

"Is he okay?" Sarah asked.

He shook his head, "Yeah…just doped up. Damn. I can't believe it…."

"Can't believe what?" Sarah replied, "Who do you think did all this?"

"The woman that cut my hair."

Sarah blinked at him for a few moments, but said nothing. Sam recognized the look on her face though.

He smiled, "No. I'm not drugged too. When you guys dropped me off at the salon yesterday, the woman, Eva, was---well, I thought she was making small-talk, but it was strange. She wanted to know why Dean and I were looking into Marie's death. She said that she'd been following it in the newspapers and she said how awful it was that Marie was pushed down the stairs like that."

"So?"

Sam held up the newspaper obituary, "So…the paper doesn't say that she was pushed, it just says that she was found at the bottom of the steps, and it specifically says that the policebelieve that _she just fell_. The police didn't release their report of possible foul play to the press. Dean got it from his friend!"

Sarah nodded, "So, you think this woman, Eva, is behind the ghosts _and_ Marie's death."

"Marie's **murder**," Sam corrected sternly, "but I still don't get how this cross is involved…." He trailed off when he saw Sarah shaking her head.

"What?"

She smiled, "It's just…I mean, what are the odds? You stop to get a haircut at a random shop and you walk right into the woman who's behind all of this…."

Sam laughed, "Well, _sometimes_ we have _good_ luck. Now all I need is Eva's last name, and I can check her out."

Sarah looked thoughtful, "Hang on…where's the ledger that the Benoits gave you?" She ruffled through Sam's bag for a moment, before producing the ledger, "yeah, I thought so…here. Eva Devereaux, Room 7."

"Room 7?"

Sarah read the ledger entry, "Yeah. She rented the room on…Friday…right before Marie died."

Sam pursed his lips, "Makes sense. That's where 'Marie' attacked me; probably where Eva stayed while summoning the spirits. And what better place to hide the body…er, zombie, of the woman you killed than _at the crime scene_? Does it give anything else…like a phone number or address?"

Sarah scanned the entry, "Just a phone number. She paid in cash, so there was no address listed."

"Let me see," Sam motioned for the ledger, and then pulled out his phone and his wallet. He picked up the forged FBI identification he and Dean had chosen before starting this investigation. After getting the number from Dean's notes, he called 'Mandy-with-a-Y' at the police station.

"Hello, my name is Sam Gillespie, with the FBI. You were helping my partner Dean look into the Babineaux murder…"

After an obviously self-conscious pause at Dean's name, 'Mandy-with-a-Y' asked for and he confidently supplied his agent number. He didn't worry much about it. These days, getting confirmation of a government agent's ID, especially two that were supposedly undercover, took a lot longer. Homeland Security added a whole new layer of red tape to the already cumbersome process. It was one of the reasons they had chosen FBI aliases here, instead of the more readily available SBI or state police. Mandy took the number before returning to the conversation. Sam picked up where he left off.

"We were wondering if your investigation included one Eva Devereaux. She was staying in Room 7, across the hall from Ms. Babineaux."

"Let me check. Um…yes, sir. The detective assigned dismissed her as a suspect. She was working late, with about twenty witnesses, Saturday night around the time we think Babineaux was killed. Her alibi is air-tight."

Sam smiled to himself. _Yeah…I'll just bet she has plenty of witnesses…don't need to be there when you have **ghosts** doing your dirty work._ He kept his reply as professional sounding as possible, "Hmm. Well, if you don't mind, Dean and I would like to talk to her. She's not answering her phone...and we have two different addresses listed for her. Would you mind checking to see which one is her _current_ residence?"

"Oh…um, just a moment, sir…let me look that up. Yes, Ms. Devereaux is currently living at 113 Magnolia Lane."

Sam smiled, _Gotcha_. "Thank you very much. You just saved us another trip back to the field office this morning."

"Uh, Agent Gillespie…is Dean going to be returning to the station house anytime soon? Uh…I mean…to follow up on the case?" Mandy asked awkwardly.

Sam barely repressed a laugh at her attempt to be subtle. He marveled at his older brother's magnetism, "Oh, I believe he is going to be over there a few more times before we head back to Washington." _Was that a sigh of relief from her end?_

He thanked Mandy and ended the call before she could engage in any more conversation…or any more brother worship. He turned to Sarah, who was staring at him, and smiled, "Easy enough." He began clearing the papers off Dean's bed.

"So, what do we do?"

Sam looked up sharply at her, "_We_ don't do anything…. I'll go and check out Eva. If she is behind this, we can put a stop to it right now before anyone else gets hurt. Besides, I need you to stay with Dean."

"Should you go out there by yourself, Sam? I mean…what if you get another headache? And your arms---"

Sam shook his head, "Sarah, I can run this down. Dean's gonna be out for a few more hours at least…and it's too dangerous for you to get involved."

Sarah bristled at that, but Sam cut her off, "Sarah, please. Dean already got hurt on this case. This woman is dangerous, I'm sure of it. And I _won't_ let you get hurt, not after I let De---," he broke off, biting his lip and suddenly unable to maintain eye contact with her; "Please…just stay here, _for me_, okay?"

Sarah looked upset, but nodded her head. Sam leaned over and kissed her.

"Don't worry. We do this stuff all the time," he said quietly. He stuffed his research down into Dean's duffle bag, and headed for the door. Just as he reached the door, Sarah spoke softly, causing him to turn around.

"Be careful…" she kept her eyes down for a moment, and then glanced up at him with a shrug, "Dean will kill me if I let you get hurt while he's out cold."

Sam laughed softly, "You? Just think what he'll do to _me_…."

Sam stepped out of the room with a smile on his face. _She's starting to sound like Dean…._

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_Magnolia Lane, Picayune, 6:30 AM_

Eva sewed the last strand of the young man's hair into the small doll. She wasn't fond of using these small, stereotypical voodoo weapons, but she wasn't keen on going to prison for murder, either.

She didn't regret killing Marie…the vile woman deserved it for the pain she'd caused the Devereaux family. She wasn't sorry for what she did, and she wasn't sorry for terrorizing those two detectives, or whoever they were, at the bed and breakfast the night before…though if she were to be honest, she hadn't expected them to get so badly injured while inside. The plan had been to scare them off. But the spirits she had summoned in the old hidden slave chamber were powerful when angered, and she'd had to anger them a great deal in the past few days in order to recover her grandfather's property.

Although she watched as the two young men fled the building late the previous night, she sensed that they were more tenacious than to simply leave the mystery of the Babineaux murder behind. Fear of their return had prompted her to create the doll sitting before her now. The young man…_was it Sam? Yes that was it,_ Sam's hair had been meticulously stuffed into the torso of the small human-shaped doll…along with several herbs, roots, and small mystical objects she kept around just for this purpose…and then she used the few remaining strands to sew up the front of the doll.

She opened one of her older tomes, and read aloud the enchantment that would empower the doll. While she hoped she wouldn't need to use it, she knew that she _would_ if she had to. Unlike killing Marie, _this_ was self-defense. She couldn't…no, she wouldn't go to jail for protecting her family legacy from the likes of Marie Babineaux. If it meant harming one of those poor boys who were snooping around, then so be it.

Closing the tome, she retired to her bathroom to prepare for work. Her lack of sleep was going to make for a long day at the salon…and she still had to return to the Benoits' after darkness fell in order to release the spirits and dispose of Marie. Maybe then, when the evidence was gone, she could rest easy.

She placed the small voodoo doll she'd made for Sam in her purse, vowing to herself that when this mess was cleaned up, she would be able to dispose of it as well and put all of this behind her.

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A stop by the hotel had allowed Sam to remove his blood soaked clothes (which he'd found were alarming a few onlookers in the parking lot) and exchange them for clean ones. He had desperately wanted a shower, but his bandaged arms had prevented that, so he settled for using a wash cloth and the room's sink. Feeling marginally refreshed, he had gathered a few things and headed back for the car, two hours later than he had originally intended.

He noted the blood stains in Dean's seat, knowing that he would catch hell for that sooner or later. He hoped, though somewhat doubted, that Dean would understand that his arms simply wouldn't be persuaded to stop bleeding during the frantic drive to the hospital…but at least he hadn't let Sarah drive. That mitigated the situation a little…didn't it? He figured that Dean might let him off easy if he offered to pay for the cleaning. He would have to deal with that later, though. The drive to the address Mandy provided took only ten minutes.

So far as residential streets went, Picayune's Magnolia Lane was about as picturesque as they came. Sam scanned the sides of the street, taking in the quiet setting. Eva's house was the last on the street, situated in a cul-de-sac. Parking the car, Sam got out and scanned the sides of the street. There was no sign of Eva, or anyone else for that matter at this early hour.

He covertly adjusted the position of the 9mm pistol…the one his father had given him and Dean had trained him to use…that was at his waist; it had shifted when he'd risen from the car seat. He hoped he wouldn't have to _use_ it. After all, they didn't hunt _people_. His only intention was to confront Eva, if she was here, and get to the bottom of this mess. But he wasn't stupid. She was obviously a very dangerous woman, and he wasn't about to go into a situation like this unarmed.

He approached the mid-sized house quietly, senses attuned to his surroundings, just like his father had taught him. The thoughts of his father produced a twinge of regret inside him. He brushed it off, but, not for the first time in the last few months, he wished that his father was here. The irony wasn't lost on him that a mere eighteen months earlier he would never have thought that.

Eighteen months earlier, he had been at Stanford, happily ensconced in a "normal" life, with a law career on the horizon and a beautiful woman at his side…and in his bed. But while he had left his family's life of hunting behind, it had never truly left _him_. Stanford, for all the experiences he would remember fondly, had ultimately been a pipedream. He knew that now. The demon that had haunted his family since before he could remember had found him. Again. Had he not been with Dean when it came, then there was no telling where he would be now…or what horrible things he might be seeing or even doing. And Jessica would still be dead. It had taken a long time for him to realize that.

He shook off his morbid thoughts and focused on the task at hand. He bounded the steps of the front porch and knocked on the front door, ignoring the throbbing ache that pulsed through his injured arms with every impact of his hand upon the wood.

"Miss Devereaux?" he called. No answer. He knocked again, taking a moment to glance over at the driveway. He had noted the lack of a car when he'd arrived, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. His knocking was again greeted by silence from the house.

He turned and made sure no one was in sight in the nearby residences. Seeing no one, he kneeled before the door and retrieved his lock pick from his pocket. Setting about opening the door, he mused to himself that his telekinesis, whether it be called a gift or a curse, might come in handy right about now. He might have been able to unlock the door without leaving _any_ evidence of the act. Too bad his ability hadn't reared its head yet today. _What a **useful** gift_… he thought sourly.

The lock didn't take long to pick. The door clicked and he stepped back to double check that there were no apparent security devices. Pulling out his gun, he opened it and stepped into the house. It was just as quiet inside as it was outside. A quick glance confirmed that there were no alarms protecting the house. _At least nothing of human origin. _

He kept the gun partially concealed near his leg, and called out again, "Hello?"

With still no answer, Sam moved further into the house. The first floor contained a kitchen, dining room, a half-bath and a large, well-kept living room. He was about to look upstairs, when he noticed the well-used bookshelf sitting against the far wall of the living room. A small desk flanked it, or was it a sewing table? Furniture identification wasn't his specialty.

Moving closer, he began reading some of the titles, noticing with some dread that more than one dealt with the Occult. Several were simple guidebooks, lexicons of local plant-life that held mystical qualities or could be used in magic. One particularly old spine, he unhappily noted, was titled in old French, of which he only recognized one word: zombification. He was glad he couldn't translate the rest.

He shifted his attention to the desk. Spools of thread, a stack of some fabric that resembled burlap, and a collection of small jars lined the edge. The jars held a variety of powders, herbs, and other assorted objects known to be used by voodoo practitioners. _Great…a witchdoctor_.

He was about to move on when he noticed a thick, black leather book poking out from one of the desk's cubbyholes. He pulled the heavy volume out onto the desk. It had no title. He opened it and flipped through the pages. Some of it was in old English, some in Latin, and some in French. While he couldn't read all of the words, he recognized a spell-book when he saw one. He closed the book and returned it to its place.

Sam headed upstairs, wanting to completely search the house despite already knowing that Eva wasn't there, and having found some proof of _what_ she was. But something was nagging at him…a feeling he couldn't quite place, so he continued his search. The upstairs wasn't a full floor, being significantly smaller in area than the downstairs. There were two bedrooms, one of which he assumed was for guests, and a full bathroom. The guest room was straightforward enough, with no evidence of anything out of the ordinary. It didn't appear to have been used recently.

The master bedroom, presumably Eva's, was similarly devoid of anything incriminating. He would have expected to see more evidence of her activities. He wondered if there was such a thing as a "part-time" witchdoctor. _Then again…it is the twenty-first century…everyone needs a day-job_….

He was about to leave the room, when he found himself staring at some old photographs hanging by the room's large window. Stepping closer, he took in the details. Several of them were of children, but one was of an octogenarian black man in coveralls, holding a small girl with long flowing hair. The picture had yellowed with age, and Sam guessed it dated from the late seventies or early eighties, judging by the color and quality. He silently thanked his photography professor at Stanford for teaching him well, and let his eyes move over the picture, wondering why he was so fascinated by it.

It took him a moment, but he realized that the man and the little girl weren't the source of his interest in the picture. Behind the man, on a crowded mantle, was a golden cross.

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Wherever he was, it was too damned cold. Dean emerged just enough from the comforting darkness of unconsciousness to reach a hand down and fish for the covers. He found the sheet and pulled it up towards his bare shoulders. The thin fabric didn't help all that much, really, but it did shield him from the draft that had been tormenting him.

He couldn't believe how soft this pillow was…it was heavenly. He idly thought to himself that they would definitely have to stay in this hotel again. The thought went no further than that as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Whenever he slipped out, he kept returning to this dream about the house they'd lived in just before he'd started high school.

_He followed a ten-year old Sammy as they sneaked silently past the neighbor's window, preparing to pull "the ultimate prank" on some obnoxious kids who'd been picking on Sam. Dean had already beaten one of them up, he remembered that much…but Sam, in that all too mature for a ten year old way of his, had suggested that rather than bashing the younger two, they should pull a prank. The kids would remember that longer, he'd argued. So, together, on a hot July afternoon, they had hatched a plan that put every other prank they'd ever pulled to shame…._

The weird thing was that every time he looked at Sammy, he wasn't ten…he was twenty-two at least. He couldn't see himself…but he had to assume that he wasn't a child either. In between lapses into the memory, he figured out that he was just dreaming. He kept reliving the moment right before the prank, never actually seeing the action. When he felt himself slipping back down into it, he tried to force the dream to keep going, but it wouldn't cooperate.

Without opening his eyes, he rolled over onto his back, grunting softly but not caring…it wasn't loud enough to wake Sammy anyway….

The damned dream was stuck on that moment under Mr. Hoskins' window.

_Oh well…whatever…._

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Sam moved back downstairs, ready to give up on finding anything else of use. As he passed back through the kitchen, he saw a handwritten list on the refrigerator door. It was Eva's work schedule.

_Huh…why didn't I notice that before?_ He thought incredulously. According to the paper, Eva should be at work at that very moment. He headed out the front door, made sure he locked it back, and jogged out to the car.

The trip back to the salon took a little longer than he thought…mostly due to detours because of road construction. By the time he arrived at the curb…almost exactly where they'd parked the first time…he had lost some of his edge.

He hated confrontations like this…confronting someone without all the facts or at least a decent idea of their capabilities. The variables were too unpredictable…especially without his partner along. But, Dean was in the _hospital_ because of this woman. A spark of anger at that fact nudged Sam out of the car. He checked to make sure he had his weapon, though he kept it concealed this time. He was wary of the danger, but he knew better than to draw a weapon in a crowded location like this one. _Here goes_….

He opened the door and stepped inside.

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Eva sat, bored, at her station, staring at her appointment book without seeing it. She had a light day scheduled, just one haircut, a coloration, and a permanent. That would have taken a few hours, sure, but after that, she was free to go and then she could focus on her _other_ appointment, at the Benoits.' But, all three of her clients had called early and cancelled, which was uncommon, but not unheard of in her profession. That left her nothing to do.

She couldn't risk entering the bed and breakfast before nightfall. It was still a crime scene, and while the police had found her (completely true) alibi acceptable, her name was still in the Benoits' ledger and her being seen at the crime scene again might raise too many questions. That was unfortunate all around, because she much rather would have entered the hidden servant's "tomb" during the daylight hours…it was somewhat safer.

Still, she carried the old Rosary and even older crucifix that she had taken from the slaves' corpses on her person. The objects had allowed her to summon the spirits, anger them, and most importantly, prevent them from attacking _her_. If she were to let go of them at any time while in the area of the bed and breakfast, she would be in great danger. Occupants of the spirit world had little mercy for those who disturbed their rest…regardless of justification. Once she reversed the summoning spell, she would have to place the items back where she had found them. And she planned on beating a hasty retreat after doing just that. Better safe than sorry.

Marie was another matter. The zombification process allowed for her safety from Marie's reanimated body. No, safety wasn't the issue there. It was _disposal_. The only thing she could think of to do on that count was return the body to the morgue, and pay the gullible teenage medical examiner's assistant the agreed "hush money."

_I…I don't know about this…a sorority prank? A little morbid isn't it?_

_The best prank wins, sweetie…now, $100 up front, I take the…body…and another $100 when I bring it back. Alright?_

_Well…I guess so…. I'm not going to get in trouble am I?_

_Not if you keep quiet, mon chéri_ _… now, do we have a deal?_

Eva shook off the memory with a sigh. She had a lot of work to do before all this could be put behind her. She got up and walked to where Marguerite was sitting at the front desk, absently chewing gum. Eva froze when she saw the all-too-familiar car drive up outside, with its all-too-familiar occupant.

_Merde!_ Her hopes that the two young men would stop snooping around after the run-in with the ghosts were dashed instantly. So far as she was concerned, there were few reasons why Sam would return here today. _He must have figured out my involvement somehow_. She hurriedly stepped the rest of the way to Marguerite's desk.

"Marguerite," she whispered quickly, "I need your help. See that man outside in the car?"

The teenager looked out the window and grinned, "Yeah…he's cute."

Eva tried to keep the exasperation off her face as she tried to ignore the adolescent's hormones, "Yes, well, he's also trouble…look I don't have time to explain. Just…if he comes in, tell him you haven't seen me today. I need to get out of here."

Marguerite looked at her strangely, "Are you in some kind of trouble, Eva? I mean…I can just call the cops if---"

"No," Eva hissed, "it'll take to long to explain. Just…look, tell him you haven't seen me. Blow him off. Then tell Bill I had to go and will explain it all later, can you do that for me?"

Marguerite smiled sweetly, if uncertainly, "Sure. I guess. Go ahead; I'll get rid of him."

Eva hurried to the back of the salon, grabbing her purse as she jogged. She thanked whatever deity that might be listening for the blessing that she hadn't worn heels today. Reaching into her bag, she retrieved the small doll, and the coffin nail that was attached to it.

With any luck, she'd be long gone before she would need either of them.

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Sam let the tinted glass door close behind him. He scanned the room, but could find no sign of Eva near the station she'd been at the day before.

_Was it really only yesterday?_

He tugged his sleeves down to cover the bandages on his arms, flipped his collar up over the bruises ringing his neck, and put his most charming---and Dean-like---expression on his face and approached the nervous looking teenager at the desk. He was pretty sure she was the same one that Dean had tried flirting with when they'd been in earlier. She was popping her gum with an oddly guarded expression today.

"Hi, my name is Sam and I was in here yesterday," he opened.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes, "Um…oh…yeah, hi. Was something wrong?"

"I was wondering if Eva was back in today. I need to discuss something in private with her."

"Um…no."

Sam raised his eyebrows, "No she's not, or no I can't?" he asked with what he hoped was a disarming grin.

"No…she's uh, not here. She called in sick today."

In Sam's opinion, one didn't need to be psychic to tell when people were lying. Times like this only reinforced that opinion. He kept his smile on and tried to look clueless, "Oh, that's too bad. Could you tell me when she'll be back?"

"Um, I don't know. I…I think she's going to be out all week…."

The soft but easily discernable sound of a heavy door clicking shut in the back echoed through the nearly empty establishment. The nervous glance that Marguerite cast back towards it only confirmed his suspicion. He smiled again, "Thanks anyway. I'll try back."

He stepped briskly out the door and once he was out of the teenager's sight, he broke into a dead run. He raced down the alleyway beside the building. He emerged in another alley which ran behind the row of buildings that lined the street. He found Eva instantly, scurrying down the alley, heading for an adjacent side road. Not taking any chances, he drew his 9mm and raised it, calling out to the retreating woman.

"Eva! Stop!"

She did as instructed, looking back at him with an alarmed expression. He watched her reach into her handbag and he instinctively tightened his grip on the gun.

"Eva! Listen, I just want to tal---"

He was cut off when a sharp pain lanced through his right bicep, causing him to drop the gun and grip his arm with his left hand. _What the_--- The pain was beyond anything he had prior experience with…even worse than when a certain vampire had taken to pressing a sewing needle into his flesh a few weeks earlier. He bit back a cry, and tried to shut out the pain. He took a halting step in Eva's direction, forcing himself to concentrate on his objective: preventing her escape. He owed it to Dean to put this problem to an end.

Sam made it all of four steps when the pain in his arm disappeared…only to be replaced by an even more paralyzing pain in his abdomen. It felt like a butcher knife was being twisted in his gut. He doubled over, clutching his midsection, and lost his footing, going down hard and landing face first on the pavement. He cried out in pain; it was too intense to ignore this time.

Whatever it was tied his stomach in knots. His abdominal muscles clenching in an instinctual attempt to ward off an attack that he couldn't even see. The tightness of his own muscles squeezed his diaphragm, and in turn constricted his breathing. Stars formed in his vision and his mind reeled. He wondered how much longer he had before he passed out completely, and decided that it was probably too long for comfort.

Writhing as the agony washed over him in waves, he managed to raise his head, and realized that whatever was happening to him, Eva was the cause. He saw her holding something with both hands, but couldn't make out what exactly it was from this distance. She moved her right hand, and the pain doubled in intensity. He clutched his stomach, helpless against whatever she was doing to him.

He was so overwhelmed by the torturous assault that he almost missed the spike of pain behind his eyes. The familiar rush of sensation through his head startled him. He could only watch as Eva's hands were thrust apart, and as she lost her grip on whatever she'd been holding. The pain in his head and the agony in his midsection began to fade away at the same time. He looked up, gasping for air, and saw her look at him with an expression of total shock before bolting down the alley and disappearing behind the next building.

He pushed himself up onto his knees, panting. _Dammit!_

Punching the wall next to him in frustration, he hauled himself to his feet. He found his gun, and replaced it in his waistband after clicking to safety back on. The pain had disappeared as mysteriously as it had assaulted him, if not quite as suddenly. He looked down the back alley, considering pursuing for a moment, but the distant receding roar of a car changed his mind. She had gotten away. Cursing under his breath, he walked back up the alley and headed for the car. _Some hunter_….

He wondered if Dean was awake yet.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

_People have asked, so I thought I might explain something. Dean's dream, where he can't make it go any further than when they stopped beneath the window…is simply based on a dream I had the other day. I really, REALLY wanted to see where the dream was going, since it was strange and quite creepy, but no matter how hard I tried (while asleep, mind you) to advance the dream, it wouldn't go any further. I hate that. _

_Sorry if that disappoints anyone…it had little bearing on the story._

_I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 8**

_Crosby Memorial Hospital, Room 114_

Dean couldn't move the damned dream past the point where they were crouching beneath Mr. Hoskins' window. Growing frustrated, he shifted in the bed, trying to get comfortable…maybe if he did, the dream would get to the good part….

A sharp pain shot through his back like a lightning bolt, his eyes snapped open and he was halfway up off the bed before he even finished crying out.

A pair of warm female hands came to rest on his shoulders. A purely hormonal thrill raced through his drowsy body. For a second he thought that maybe this hotel was better than ANY that they had stayed in EVER…before he realized that it was Sarah. Recognition of Sammy's girl instantly brought him back to reality. The stark white walls also helped ground him.

_Hospital, not hotel…that's right, I was in a hospital…._

"Dean! Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?"

She was talking way too fast for him…sleep still covered his mind in cobwebs, "Mm-hmm…fine…Sarah?" He shook his head, trying to clear it.

He sank back, letting her guide him down onto his side, avoiding putting pressure on his bandaged back. He gazed up at her in confusion.

"You were dreaming, I think…you rolled over onto your back," she reached over him and tugged a cord out from behind him, "and I think you rolled onto the call button," she said with a sympathetic smile.

"Oh…" Dean muttered. He glanced around, trying to see the window, "how long…?"

"Ever since they gave you the pain medicine around five o'clock."

He nodded, shaking the last of the mental cobwebs away. Another glance around the room gave him pause. Something, no, some_one_ was missing, "Where's Sam. You finally get him to go to sleep?"

Sarah frowned, "Uh, well…no. He thinks he figured out who's behind all this."

Dean met her eyes, wondering what she was holding back, and at the same time, feeling a cold sensation bubbling up from his stomach. It had nothing to do with the air conditioning, "Yeah…who?"

"Eva Devereaux, the woman who cut his hair at that salon," she said, quickly filling in the details of Sam's deduction, and then adding, "and he went to find her."

Dean's eyebrows shot up, "He _WHAT_?"

"He left a little while after you went to sleep. He said he was going to try and put a stop to it before anyone else got hurt," she stated matter-of-factly.

"And _you let him go_? Are you nuts?"

Sarah's eyes flashed with anger, "I didn't 'let him' do anything Dean! You know how he gets…especially when it has to do with protecting the people he---" she trailed off, taking a deep breath, then finished calmly, "I _tried_ to stop him from going alone, but he thinks he owes it to you to track this woman down after what happened to you last night."

Dean let his head sink onto the pillow, "Goddammit, Sammy…. Fucking martyr complex…."

Sarah leaned closer to the bed, "You think you can walk, Dean? It's been almost four hours and I'm worried. He hasn't called at all since he left…."

Dean struggled to keep his back straight as he pushed himself up, "You bet your ass I can walk---"

"Nuh-uh, the doc said he wants to keep you here another few hours to be sure you haven't busted any stitches…and keep your bets away from my girlfriend's ass, okay?"

Sam's voice from the doorway startled both of them. Dean's relief at his younger sibling's sudden arrival was quickly overshadowed, however, by the urge to ream Sam out for taking off alone in the first place. The re-emerging ache in his back wasn't helping his mood any either...in fact, he was rapidly becoming pissed. _Sam knows better than that! I **taught** him better than that!_ His errant brother's appearance gave him pause, though. Sam was disheveled and dirty, and had an ugly, bloody abrasion on his forehead.

"What happened? Are you alright?" he asked, his concern temporarily displacing the angry lecture on the dangers of hunting alone. _Temporarily_.

Sam seemed confused by the question, and just looked at Dean rather dumbly. Dean responded by pointing to the cuts on his forehead.

"Oh, that," Sam replied nonchalantly, raising his hand to his head to inspect the wound, "you can thank Eva for that. She was trying to run out the back of the salon, and I stopped her. I started to point my gun at her and the next thing I know, it feels like someone's stabbing me in the stomach, and I fell over…. Guess I hit my head."

"You just _fell_ _over_?" Dean asked suspiciously.

Sam nodded, "Yeah…but with a little 'help' I think. Eva was holding something. I couldn't see what it was, but I've had some time to think about it. Given that it _hurt_ me," he continued, counting off his reasons on his fingers, "she's a witchdoctor, and it stopped when whatever it was dropped out of her hands, I'm pretty sure that it was a voodoo doll."

"Oh, my God…" Sarah breathed in surprise.

Dean held up a hand, "Wait, to make a doll like that you gotta have something that belongs to the victim…."

Sam smirked and merely pointed to his head, obviously waiting for his brother to catch up. It clicked with Dean almost immediately.

"Your hair."

Sam just nodded.

Dean rocked back gently onto the pillow, "Shit."

"You can say that again," Sam replied glibly, dabbing at his bloody forehead.

Sarah rose and looked closer at the injury, "It looks okay…let me get something to clean it with…I'll be right back."

"Thanks." Sam watched her leave the room, his eyes following until she passed through the door. He turned back to Dean and just stared at him, his expression guarded.

Dean watched Sam watch him, "What?"

"You mad?"

Dean frowned; he _wanted_ to say yes, "No."

Sam looked at him doubtfully, "You _look_ mad…"

"I'm not."

"Really?"

"GODDAMMIT, SAM!"

"So, you _are_ mad."

Dean boiled over, "You're already hurt. Your arms are cut all to hell. Where the fuck do you get off charging off like…like…."

"Like _you_?" Sam said, keeping his eyes firmly on the bed sheets. He at least had the good sense not to smile.

Dean ignored the jibe, picking up steam, "You could have gotten yourself killed! What the hell were you thinking? No! Don't answer that! I know _exactly_ what you were thinking. My getting hurt _wasn't your fault, goddammit_. Jesus, Sam! It's like…are you **_trying_** to get yourself killed?"

Dean stopped when he couldn't find anything else to say. He just fumed and waited for Sam to say something. Sam slowly raised his gaze to meet Dean's, his expression placid.

"Feel better?" he asked quietly.

"**Much!**" Dean groused, "Except that these fucking painkillers are too _weak_!"

Sam didn't blink, "Really? I couldn't tell."

Dean's angry shell cracked, but he stubbornly tried to cover up the snicker that slipped out, "Don't make me laugh, Sammy, I'm still pissed at you."

"I'm sorry," Sam muttered softly.

That defused Dean's anger completely. He had always let Sam off the hook when he used that tone. Their dad had always criticized him for that. The fury melted away before he could stop it. He sighed and rubbed his head, feeling a headache coming on.

"I just wanted to end this before anyone else got hurt."

_Before you got hurt again…or Sarah…._ Dean heard the unspoken words as clearly as if Sam had actually uttered them. He just stared off at the hospital wall.

"I know, Sam," _I know all too well_.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Dean rolled his eyes and looked back at him, "So, what'd you find?"

Sam glanced at the door as Sarah re-entered, carrying a damp cloth and some first-aid supplies, then he looked back at Dean.

"Well, she's a witch-doctor, that's for sure. She had a very large and heavy spell book in her house, along with supplies to make potions and an old text on zombification, and apparently, the golden cross that Marie wanted to sell belonged to someone close to her."

Dean's eyebrows rose at that part, "Really? Huh. That would explain the theft. So…what? You think Marie took the thing and Eva killed her to get it back?"

"Pretty sure…you said Marie was a relic hunter, and an unscrupulous one," Sam shook his head, "Heh. I can't really wrap my brain around it…it's so…_common_."

Sarah glanced at them from where she was dabbing peroxide on Sam's forehead, "What do you mean?"

Sam chuckled, "I mean…we were looking for some supernatural reason why these ghosts would suddenly kill Marie, and in a place that she had no real connection to…she was just a guest. But it was _a hit_. Eva summoned these spirits just so that she could kill Marie and get that cross back."

"And keep her hands clean so the cops won't suspect her," Dean added.

Sam winced as Sarah dabbed a tender spot, glancing down at Dean, "The only thing I don't get is why she turned Marie into a zombie and used her to kill Legiere. What did he have to do with it? He was just an art appraiser."

"Eva will know," Dean said darkly, "we'll just have to ask _her_."

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Eva pulled her car into a secluded parking lot in the southwest corner of town. She had been driving in circles for two hours, trying to make sure Sam wasn't following her. She was fairly confident that she'd covered her tracks sufficiently.

This Sam person frightened her. He was no cop; that was for certain. No, she was beginning to suspect that he was something much more dangerous. Her eyes drifted down to the voodoo doll she had made to use against the young man. He had managed to knock it out of her hands just by _looking_ at her.

He was a sorcerer of some kind, she was sure of it.

But why was he after her? It could only mean that he was involved with Marie somehow. _Maybe he was the buyer she had been lining up to purchase the cross_.

It didn't matter. She needed to put an end to this mess. She'd go back to the Benoits that night and exorcise the ghosts from the secret room, and then find a way to protect herself from this sorcerer. The doll might hold him off for a while, but she needed something more permanent. She might be able to find something in one if her spell books. She decided to head home and look into it.

If she couldn't find a spell to protect herself from him…she would just have to send Marie after him before she returned the body to the morgue.

Maybe then she could get back to her normal life.

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"Arghh!"

"You sure this is a good idea, Dean?"

"You sure it's a good idea to ask me that _again_, Sam?" Dean replied testily, "Now give me a hand, would ya? I'm not Superman…."

Sam stepped forward and helped Dean off the hospital bed, muttering under his breath, "We need to find you some stronger painkillers…."

Dean gasped as the tender skin of his back stretched against the stitches again as his feet hit the floor, "Arghh…what was that, Sammy?"

Sam looked innocent, "Nothin' man…."

Dean snorted, pulling his jeans all the way up. He'd managed to get his lower half, boots and all, dressed while sitting on the bed…and with minimal help from Sam. Now came the part that he was dreading the most: the shirt.

"Are you two decent yet?" Sarah called from where she stood guard just outside the door. Dean had banished her to the hallway when he had started getting dressed. He was no prude, but Sarah's relationship with Sam made her more like a sister than just an ordinary girl. A _smokin' hot_ sister…but a sister none the less. He had justified his sudden shyness to Sam in the only way he could.

_I just wouldn't want the sight of me being the reason she dumped you, Sammy._

"Not quite yet…Dean's still putting his makeup on," Sam deadpanned.

Dean shot his brother a glare before he turned to the bed and started putting his watch and ring back on. He felt, rather than saw, Sam tense behind him. A quick look out of the corner of his eye confirmed what he suspected. Sam had caught a good, close-up look at the damage to his back, reminding him of _why_ they were in the hospital, and the self-damning mechanisms in his brother's mind had clicked on at full power. He pivoted his head to look at Sam, who promptly found something interesting to look at on the floor.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asked quietly.

Sam mumbled something that sounded like an unconvincing 'yes.' Dean frowned and tossed his shirt at his brother's brooding head, "Then give me a hand?"

Sam dutifully held the shirt open so that Dean could slide into it. It was the most loose-fitting shirt he owned, but it was still uncomfortable when it fell against his bandages. He grimaced a little as he buttoned up the shirt, feeling the back side constrict slightly. _It'll have to do…._

He gathered the rest of his belongings and stuffed them into the duffle bag Sam had retrieved from the hotel. He glanced at Sam, who had gone back into mother-hen mode, and rolled his eyes. The kid was nothing if not predictable. Without thinking he hoisted his bag off the bed and started to throw it over his shoulder. The sharp pain from one of the lash marks in his right shoulder quickly reminded him why that was a bad idea. In a flash, Sam was there, taking hold of the bag and placing over his own shoulder. He had the good grace to look at Dean apologetically, rather than rub it in. Dean reminded himself to find a way to thank him for that later.

They met Sarah in the hallway, and they proceeded to the nurse's station so Dean could sign himself out. The doctor was there, rehashing the same cautionary advice he had earlier when they had informed him that they were leaving. Checking themselves out of a hospital against medical advice was nothing new to them…their father had taught them well that the longer they stayed in one place, the more of a risk they ran in having to answer troubling questions.

They were out in the parking lot ten minutes later.

"Where are we off to first?" Sam asked quietly.

They reached the car, and Dean unlocked the trunk and placed his bag inside before answering, "Food. That was the crappiest hospital food I've ever had. Then I figure we should stake out Eva's house for a while---" Dean stopped short when he reached the driver's side door, "What the?"

He spotted the streaks of dried blood in the seat cushion and along the back, "Did you let me bleed all over my car when we came here?" he asked Sam accusingly, forgetting momentarily that he didn't recall driving them to the hospital. The words, however, were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Sarah, who'd been moving to get in behind Dean, whispered next to his shoulder, "It's Sam's…."

Dean glanced at her, then back at Sam who was looking like a scolded puppy, "Oh…you were bleeding that bad…?" Sam nodded once, biting his lip. Dean was contrite, "Oh…sorry."

Sam gave him a small, forced smile, "Don't worry; I'll get it cleaned for you."

Dean dropped his gaze down to the seat, embarrassed at his knee-jerk reaction to seeing the car stained, "S'okay Sammy…we'll deal with that later," he mumbled.

"Need any help?" Sam asked when Dean didn't immediately attempt to sit down.

Dean glanced up at him and shook his head, "Nah. I'm just…you know, getting ready."

_No time like the present_…. He cautiously lowered himself down, being sure to keep his back straight as he slowly sank against the cushions. The pressure on his bandages was steady but not debilitating. He let out the breath he'd been holding. So long as he didn't move around, he was sure the act of driving wouldn't be too strenuous. He glanced at Sam when the younger man plopped down in the passenger seat.

His brother looked bad. Bandages covered his arms down almost to the elbow. The lack of sleep showed and in addition to the assorted bruises marring his face, a small Band-Aid graced his forehead. A glance at himself in the rear view mirror confirmed that he looked about as bad. He returned his gaze to Sam and craned his neck a little to see past the collar of his brother's shirt. The line of mottled bruises around Sam's neck where the zombie had throttled him were darker and uglier now…which oddly enough meant they were probably healing.

He cringed a little at the thought of what Sam must have gone through to get them out of that haunted building. He had no memory between being chained up and beaten and waking up in the hospital. That meant he was more than likely unconscious the rest of the time. Sam would have had to carry him out of that room…and down all those stairs…to get him back to the car. _And what do I do? I freak out over some lousy blood stains in my car. I'm freakin' Big Brother of the Year…._

Sam noticed him staring and returned the look curiously, "What?"

Dean smiled slightly, shaking away his brooding thoughts, "Some trip this turned out to be, huh?"

Sam's gloomy face brightened a bit, a hint of a smile forming, "Yeah…we can't go anywhere nice…."

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Dinner consisted of greasy burgers and bottled water consumed in the car while watching Eva's house through some trees. A little exploration had revealed a nice spot one street over, where her residence could be observed through a thin patch of trees and hedges. Once Sam had thought about it, it made sense that Eva must have recognized the car, since she bolted before Sam even entered the salon. It made sense now to stay out of sight.

Wiping his hands with a napkin, Sam took a moment to observe Dean. His brother had been sitting ramrod straight in the driver's seat, keeping his back stiffly against the seat ever since getting in the car. He was obviously in pain, but every time Sam brought up the subject, Dean changed it. He was used to his older brother's stubbornness, but that didn't make it any less frustrating.

"Take a picture already, Sammy," Dean growled.

Caught staring, Sam quickly shifted his gaze out the window. Dean wasn't fooled of course…not that Sam thought he would be.

"What?"

Sam glanced back to him, deciding to play dumb, "Hmm?"

"You've been staring at the back of my head all afternoon…_what_?"

"Nothing," Sam mumbled with a shrug.

Dean frowned, "I'm fine, Sammy."

_You're not 'fine' dammit!_ Sam wanted to scream. He only managed an unconvincing nod. Dean had been brutalized by a rampaging ghost…and Sam could have prevented it. How was he supposed to just let that go? Dean's refusal to assign blame only made him feel worse. _Doesn't he understand?_

Sam opened his mouth to tell all of that to Dean…but the only words that formed were, "Do you need anything? Aspirin or something?"

Dean appeared to be amused by his lame response, "No, but thanks, _Doctor_ Winchester."

It was Sam's turn to frown. Dean wasn't making this any easier for him. He shook his head and raised the binoculars back to his eyes. Eva's car hadn't moved in three hours. It was already after dark, and they were running out of time if they wanted to sneak back into her house. Dean had suggested they go back in to see if there was anything Sam had missed that morning. He'd been quick to reassure that it was only a precaution.

_Dude, I trust you…but you were working off like fifteen minutes sleep and spent the night getting tossed around by zombies and ghosts…you might have missed something._

Sam had agreed. After leaving the hospital, they had grabbed food and then dropped off Sarah at the hotel before heading for Eva's neighborhood. Neither had said much since…little beyond, 'pass the napkins' anyway. Sam found himself in the bizarre position of thinking that Dean _should_ be mad at him for getting him hurt, and at the same time, hating the feeling of _having_ his brother mad at him. It was a feeling he had always hated, ever since childhood. Whatever he'd done, having Dean angry with him was a horrible thing…something to be avoided at all costs. It made him feel ten times worse than whatever punishment he'd earned.

He lowered the binoculars, not being able to focus on what he was seeing…or wasn't seeing…anyway. He noticed Dean watching him, and started fidgeting with a loose thread on his jeans. Dean sighed and turned back to the window.

"You know…you can stop acting like I just grounded you, Sam. I'm not mad."

Sam stared glumly at his knees for a moment before answering, "You ought to be."

Dean glanced back at him before resuming his observation of the house, "Why's that?"

Sam snorted, "'Cause I got you hurt!"

"Hey, you screwed up…not like I'm Mr. Perfect or anything."

Dean's attitude was making Sam crazy. _How can he just gloss over this?_

"Dean---"

Dean sighed again, shifting his position in the seat slightly, but staring at the steering wheel, "Sam. Look. I spent the night getting horsewhipped by a ghost summoned by some crazy witchdoctor, stayed in a hospital bed all day without even a hot nurse to keep me occupied, I've just eaten a lousy cheeseburger that's probably gonna give me indigestion, and the woman we've come here to watch is holing up in her house so we can't search the place. Do you really have to keep torturing me with this Lifetime moment? I've suffered enough for one week."

"Sorry…."

"I could do without hearing you say _that_ for a couple of days too."

Sam shrugged, suddenly too tired to argue, "What do you want me to say?"

"How about, 'hey, bro, I really want to go salt a few ghosts and nail this voodoo bitch so that we can get the hell out of this God-forsaken town?'"

"I do," Sam said with conviction.

"Good! Let's do that and be done with it. I'm _not_ mad at you, Sam, so let it drop."

Sam couldn't help the feeling of relief that flooded through him, or the smirk that crept onto his face, "Geez…we really need to get you a stronger painkiller…."

Dean returned his smirk, "You think it's bad now? What until I have to get off this seat…I'll probably be ready to kill something by then."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching Eva's house. Sam let his thoughts wander to Eva herself. She was complicating matters. Finding a way to exorcise the ghosts was only part of the problem. He looked back at Dean.

"So…what _are_ we gonna do about Eva?"

"What about her?"

"Well…I mean…she's human. We don't…." he trailed off. _We don't kill **people**_.

Dean glanced at him, looking as grim as Sam felt, "Honestly? I don't know."

"We could always tie her up and leave her in front of the police station with a note…." Sam quipped, eager to lighten the mood.

"Heh. Like the Lone Ranger? What would the note say? 'Here's your murderer…she used ghosts and voodoo to knock off Marie, send the reward to this address?'" Dean grinned.

"Might work," Sam smiled.

"Yeah, well, start writing, Tonto."

"Me? Why am _I_ the sidekick?"

"'Cause I'm the Lone Ranger. I'm always the Lone Ranger."

"That's only because Dad always let you pick first," Sam countered, then after a pause he added, "I'm _not_ Tonto."

"Well, I'm sure as hell not Tonto!"

"Fine. Forget Tonto! No one's Tonto," Sam exclaimed, tossing the used napkin in the trash bag by his foot.

"We could try for Batman…."

"No way! I'm not _Robin_ either!"

Dean looked him up and down for a minute, "Nah, you're right. You're way too tall to be Robin."

They sat in companionable silence for a few more minutes. Dean glanced at the clock suddenly and cursed under his breath. Sam looked at him curiously, and then followed his gaze to the clock. It read eight o'clock. _Have we really been sitting there for over two hours?_

"She's not coming out, Sammy," Dean said with quiet disappointment, "let's just go back to the hotel and get our stuff together. We should try and get those ghosts out of there tonight."

Sam looked up at him sharply as Dean started the car and started driving slowly out of the neighborhood, "What? Go back? But, Dean you're still---"

"Sammy," Dean interrupted with a warning tone. Sam remembered his wish to ignore his injury and clammed up. _Fine. Stubborn bast_---- Dean's voice cut into his thoughts.

"So, any ideas on how we get rid of these ghosts?"

Sam shook his head bleakly. He'd been thinking about that off and on since the night before, "Well…we can't burn the bodies. In a building that old we could bring the place down on top of us before we got out. Plus, we don't even know if burning the remains works when they're summoned back by magic."

Dean glanced at him in surprise, "I didn't think about that…so…_what_ then?"

Sam thought for a moment. They had to have something they could use to---- "Wait. Dean…we still have that little magic book that I got out of Roy LeGrange's house."

Dean looked at him with an expression of dread, "Ah, man. Sammy, you know I don't like using that thing."

Sam nodded. The book Sue-Ann LeGrange used to bind that reaper was filled with old spells. Old and powerful spells. Dean had almost forced Sam to destroy it after they left Nebraska and when he realized Sam still had it. They'd argued for days over it, but Sam had finally won out. It was too valuable to just throw away.

"Yeah, I know. But it has all kinds of binding spells in it…one of them might work here. If nothing else, we can keep them bound until we find out how Eva summoned them and end it for good."

Dean held up his hand in caution, "Even if we did try it, and that's not permission, I'm just saying 'if,' would we have time to cast two spells for two ghosts? You think we can hold 'em off long enough?"

Sam shrugged, "We load up on rock salt. You're a good shot."

Dean grimaced, "Sam…I, um…I'm not sure my back can handle the kick of a shotgun right now…."

Sam paused, knowing how difficult that admission must have been for his proud sibling. He chose not to make a big deal of it, and let the opening for an 'I told you so' pass, "So, we load up one of the handguns. They don't kick as hard, and you won't have to reload as often."

Dean glowered at him, and Sam knew he'd made his case, "Alright. Maybe. We'll check the book while we're loading up in the room."

Sam smiled internally, knowing a victory when he heard one. He wisely kept his face neutral.

"And stop gloating, Sammy. I haven't made up my mind yet."

Sam laughed out loud at the look on his brother's face. _I guess I didn't hide it enough…_. Dean said nothing else as he steered for the hotel.

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_Two hours later._

They arrived at the bed and breakfast around 10:00. It had taken a while, but Sam had found a binding spell in Sue-Ann's little black book that would contain the two ghosts together. It wouldn't last forever, just a few days, but it was the best thing that they could come up with. They'd just have to find Eva in the next couple of days. As an added bonus, Sam had found another that would ward them off for a few minutes at a time, which would make casting the bigger spell that much easier.

As he placed the car in park, Dean made sure to scan the area carefully; it appeared to be deserted. Sam hopped out of the car and proceeded to the trunk to gather their weapons and bag, but Dean stayed put.

Much to Dean's chagrin, Sam noticed and moved around to the open driver's side door, "What's wrong?"

Dean wanted to just die for asking, but he had little choice, "Help."

Sam just stared at him in confusion, "Huh?"

Dean sighed dramatically, "_Help_ me. My back stiffened up while I was lying on the bed, now I can't get up."

Sam frowned, "Dean, if---"

"Not a word, Sam."

Sam hoisted Dean out of the car as carefully as he could. Dean stifled a groan as Sam straightened him out. Sam had that look, like he was gonna try to convince him to forget the hunt tonight, but Dean cut him off before anything came out by stalking slowly towards the trunk. He pulled on his shirt collar, trying to keep the fabric off of his bandages. Sam joined him a moment later, placing the duffle on his shoulder.

Dean loaded one handgun with salt rounds, and another with actual bullets. He wanted to be prepared for anything, "Ready?"

Sam looked like he wanted to protest, but simply nodded.

They made their way silently toward the building. Dean noted that even the insects weren't making any noise, a sure sign that weird things were happening here. It was quiet enough for Dean to hear stone grinding against stone as the angel statues' heads turned to follow them inside. He pushed it out of his mind. Such paranormal events were common with these kinds of hauntings. It still freaked him out, but he found that focusing on the throbbing ache in his back kept his mind off the nosy angel statues.

Once inside, and away from the prying granite eyes, they headed upstairs. Climbing was a difficult task when every twist of your back triggered a spike of pain, but Dean managed to keep his grunts nearly silent. Not silent enough though….

"You okay?" Sam whispered.

Dean merely nodded, refusing to let Sam's worrying deter him from getting this job done. They reached the third floor and drew their weapons.

Dean motioned for Sam to take the right side of the hall, and they guarded each other's back on the way to the room. Once they were close enough to Room 7, the now decomposing corpse of Marie could be plainly _smelled_. They both grimaced and placed hands over their mouths to keep from gagging.

Dean moved stealthily to the busted down door of Room 8. Clearly, no one had been in the building since they're little adventure the night before. Dean noted that, unlike the previous night, nothing was floating around inside the room. _Maybe that's a good sign…._

They made their way across the cluttered room, to the closet door, which was still open. The inner, secret door was broken and ajar. _Probably from where Sam went through it_, he thought to himself grimly.

He raised his salt-loaded pistol and started to enter the hidden room when he froze. He could hear a woman's voice, chanting something in another language. He looked sharply back at Sam, who had also drawn a weapon. Sam had heard it too.

They weren't alone.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

_There's some overlap here, as several things start happening at once. I hope it isn't confusing._

_I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 9**

Dean paused, and then motioned for Sam to follow him back out of the room. Once in the hall, they took up a defensive position outside the door.

"Eva?" he whispered.

Sam nodded, "Sounded like her. What do you think she's up to in there?"

Dean shrugged, "Dunno…but I doubt anybody'll like it…. Let's go."

He started to move back into the room, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder; he stopped and looked back at Sam, who spoke quickly.

"Dude…are you sure you're up to this?"

Dean normally would have protested angrily at the suggestion that he wasn't capable of hunting…in any condition…but the look on Sam's face brought him up short. That anguished, worried look forced him to consider things rationally for a moment. If he wanted to be _rational_, he would have to admit that Sam had a point. He wasn't exactly in the best shape to go in guns blazing. Hell, both of them had taken a bad beating during the last few days. The smart thing to do was retreat to the hotel, heal up a little more, and then come back when they were closer to full strength.

But his instincts were telling him that they should end this now. End it before the angry spirits in this place hurt someone else. End it before the cops came back and discovered Marie's corpse in the next room with Sam's blood all over the floor near her. End it before Eva disappeared and had a chance to cause mayhem somewhere else.

He trusted his instincts. After so many years, he could do little else. Playing it safe wasn't in Dean's handbook, unless it related directly to _Sam's_ safety. With a glance back into the room to make sure they were still alone, he grabbed Sam's arm, careful of the bandages, and led him a little further down the hall.

"Sam," he whispered urgently, "if we back out of this now, there's no telling what that witchdoctor will do in there. She could get away and do God-knows-what to someone else later on. We're the only ones in any position to stop her."

Sam studied him carefully for a few seconds, before he sighed and bowed his head, "You're right." He reached into his pocket and withdrew the small black spell book with a newly determined look on his face, "Okay. This will bind _the ghosts_…but what do we do about Eva?"

He noticed for the first time this evening that Sam's forehead had a sheen of sweat on it. Lately, that wasn't a good sign. In response to the question, Dean shrugged, "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, little brother. You ready?"

Receiving a firm nod in return, he patted his brother's shoulder approvingly and turned back in the direction of the door. He hoped that, despite the apparent warning sign, Sam's oncoming psychic moment was a ways off. They could go without a headache and telekinetic incident right now.

With a grace that defied their current physical conditions, they glided silently into the room, guns drawn. They stopped at the doorway that led into the secret room.

Dean peered into the gloomy shadows, only seeing the opening into the larger chamber beyond, and the flickering oil lamps along the walls. The tiny flames cast a dim but eerie glow on the hidden area. He nodded to Sam, and led the way down the narrow corridor past the secret closet entrance. As they moved, an uncomfortable thought began to nag at his mind.

_Eva has a voodoo doll meant for Sam_….

She would no doubt use it if she chose to attack. He knew from his own prior experience with voodoo that one of those things could take someone out of commission easily. He'd have to keep Sam out of the picture until he could secure the doll…but how? _There's only one way…keep him out of sight._

They stopped where the corridor widened into the larger slave chamber. Dean released the safeties on his guns, and watched Sam silently open the spell book to the appropriate page. He motioned and mouthed for Sam to stay put and wait for his signal. Sam looked like he was about to protest, but seemed to think better of it, he nodded with a frown, sinking into a crouch along the entranceway. Dean smiled inwardly, grateful that his often headstrong sibling understood the value of a 'surprise attack' in this situation...even if he wasn't happy with the idea. Besides, if she didn't _see_ Sam, she was less likely to whip out the doll. He hoped.

Taking a deep breath, and willing away the dull throbbing pain in his back, Dean stepped out of his hiding spot and into the room. He spotted his quarry in a nearby corner and leveled his Beretta, the one with real bullets, at Eva's crouched form.

_Showtime_.

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Eva cleared her throat. She had finally finished the spell that calmed the two angry spirits that occupied the room with her. Casting spells that calmed an angry spirit always seemed to take longer than the spells that made it angry in the first place. Gripping the Rosary and crucifix tightly in her hand, she flipped the pages of the monstrously heavy spell book and found the enchantment that would send the spirits permanently back from where they came. She was about to start reading when something moved in her peripheral vision. She spun to find out who the newcomer was, only to find herself staring the young man she had seen with Sam at the salon.

_What…?_ Her mind reeled with unanswered questions. What was he doing here? Was he a sorcerer too? She was equally unnerved by the sight of the large silver handgun that was pointed ominously at her head. Slowly, she turned to face the man, but was careful not to attempt to rise. She was surprised by the totally nonchalant manner he exhibited when he spoke.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Eva narrowed her eyes, "Who are you?"

He obviously wasn't inclined to answer her questions, "You have a doll that you used to hurt my brother. That was a bad move sweetheart. Hand it over."

_Brother?_

She didn't move at first as she tried to assimilate the information she had just received. If this was Sam's brother it explained the familiar way they spoke to each other in the salon, but it still didn't tell her what they wanted. Were they after the cross too? Did they know about how Marie died? Were they here to exact revenge for that?

Her musings were cut short when she heard a loud click. She recognized it from movies…the man had cocked the gun. Slowly, she reached into her bag with the hand that she'd turned the page with, carefully keeping the slaves' possessions gripped with her other hand.

She produced the doll and its attached nail carefully, making a show of placing it on the ground in front of her. Biting her lip, she considered the distinct possibility that this man might not let her live even if she did hand over the doll. She decided on her course of action…she just needed to keep him talking while she flipped the pages.

"What do you want?"

The man seemed incredulous, "Me? I'm not the one murdering people, toots."

A bubble of fury rose up in Eva, "Murder? That bitch deserved what she got!" Eva spat, "She was a thief, a grave robber!"

"Grave robber?"

"That cross she wanted to sell so badly…it has been in my family for generations. It was one of the few things my great-great-great-grandfather managed to hold onto when he was brought here. He got it in Haiti, when the ship that was carrying him into slavery stopped---"

The man looked impatient, "Yeah, I know. Pirate gold."

Eva stared at him with pity, "Please. That was a _myth_. It's only gold-plated."

When the man looked confused, she continued, "My grandmother tried to sell it during the Depression, against her husband's wishes…she started the story that it had been made of pirate gold and was priceless. No one ever believed it then, and when my grandfather went to war in the forties, it was forgotten. But the story still lingers to this day. Ten years ago, Marie Babineaux approached him, claimed she'd heard the story and wanted to buy the cross…but my grandfather rejected her offer. She stole it, and our family was nearly bankrupted trying to get it back. When my grandfather died last year, we buried the cross with him."

Sam's brother looked ill, "Oh, don't tell me…."

Eva smiled condescendingly at him, "That's right, Babineaux found out, and a month ago, she dug up my grandfather's coffin and stole it _again_."

"And you murdered her for it."

"It wasn't murder! It was justice!" she exploded.

"And what about Richard Legiere? Was using Marie to kill him 'justice' too?"

"Legiere? Who do you think helped her locate the cross? He was as much involved as _she_ was…and stood to make as much money for selling it. I did what I had to do…and I'd do so again."

Sam's brother shook his head impatiently, "Look, lady, I'm sorry for whatever Marie Babineaux did to you, but I also think you're nine kinds of crazy, and I can't let you hurt anyone else…now, get up," he motioned with the gun.

Eva glanced down at the open spell book…right above the spell that angered the spirits there was a much shorter one, a command that could bring an instant attack. With a glance at the detective, sorcerer, whatever he was, she read it aloud quickly. Before the man could react to her enchantment, the air in front and beside her shimmered, and two translucent figures appeared with a rush of air.

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The ghosts appeared before Dean could threaten Eva again with the gun. They advanced on him quickly, covering the ten feet between them in a flash. He raised the rock-salt loaded pistol and barely had time to get two shots off before they were on top of him. The blasts worked, dissipating the spirits, but only slightly. They roared in defiance, filling the dim room with deafening sounds. The air around him continued to shimmer, a sure sign that the rock salt wasn't going to keep the angered slave spirits at bay for long.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who was rubbing his forehead. _Great…just what we needed…._

"Start reading!"

He looked back in time to see one of the ghosts reforming off to his right. He spun and shot another blast of rock-salt into the gathering mist. He tried to keep the other gun trained on Eva, but most of his attention was on the ghosts.

They didn't have much time.

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Sam rubbed his forehead, trying to quell the growing throb that signaled the approach of another psychic event. _Dammit! Not now! I gotta stay sharp!_

He strained to hear what Dean and Eva were saying to each other. The pain in his head was making it hard to concentrate on anything else. His clenched his fists and forced himself to focus. Dean needed him. He wasn't about to let his "gift" sideline him now.

He was broken out of his thoughts when he heard Dean shouting, "Start reading!"

Fumbling with the book for a moment, Sam shook off the headache, but having to squint to focus on the words of the binding spell. He began reading the ancient Latin incantation. He heard Dean speaking, but was so intent on the reading that he couldn't quite make out all the words.

"…think…working…keep it up!" followed by the sharp retort of a gunshot. Then another.

The incantation was nearly complete, when agony exploded in Sam's stomach. It felt like someone was driving an ice pick into his gut. Stumbling over the words, he bit back a shout and tried to finish.

The pain in his midsection vanished as suddenly as it started. In its place, a mind-boggling pain shot into his chest. Overcome, he fell forward, out of his hiding place and into plain view of everyone in the room. He couldn't draw breath. He absurdly found himself wondering if Dean had felt something like this when his heart had almost failed in Nebraska. He'd have to ask. He fumbled with the book, but with darkness beginning to creep into his vision, he finally dropped it. He turned his attention to dragging air into his lungs. He heard Dean's voice in the distance, but didn't know what he was saying.

The pain in his head intensified to keep pace with the pain that was ripping through his chest, paralyzing him.

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Dean was almost out of rock-salt rounds. _Sam had better finish this spell soon_. Firing another round into one of the advancing ghosts, he dared a glance over his shoulder to check on Sam. He looked just in time to see Sam clutch his chest and fall over in obvious pain. _What the---?_

Sam fell out of the shadows, and landed in a heap right behind Dean. Blasting the second ghost, he turned and knelt beside his ailing brother.

"Sam? Sam!"

His brain put the pieces together rapidly. He looked back at Eva, and found her jabbing a nail into a small doll. _The voodoo doll_.

Enraged, Dean launched himself at Eva, swiping the doll out of her hand, sending it across the floor and against the wall. She fell back, surprised by the attack. A gasp of relief behind him informed him that he'd released Sam from the doll's magical hold.

But he'd had to let his guard down to do it.

The first sign that he was in trouble was the sudden burst of flame from the oil lamps that lined the surrounding walls. He heard a roar behind him, from something taking up a place between him and Sam's prone form. He tried to turn, but before he could, he felt inhumanly strong hands grab him by the shoulders. Before he could fight back, he felt himself leave the ground and go flying through the air. Someone was shouting at him.

He landed, back first, against the far wall. A wave of indescribable agony washed over him, nearly rendering him unconscious. He felt a trickle of wetness form on his back. He couldn't even bring himself to cry out. The wind had been knocked out of him.

The air shimmered and coalesced in front of him. A dark form took shape, almost totally obscuring his view of the room, and Eva and Sam. He raised the rock-salt gun, but his arm was too sluggish. His partially outstretched arm served as a handle for the spirit, who latched on and flung him towards another wall. He hit halfway up the wall, one of his guns crashing hard into the line of oil lamps, shattering two of them and spilling their contents down the wall and onto the floor.

He landed on his side, and would have been spared yet another back-raking impact had not his momentum defeated his feeble attempt to brace himself. His abused back again slammed into the unforgiving wood. He scrambled to cover his head as shards of glass and a torrent of oil splattered to the floor beside him. A loud _whoosh_ alerted him that the leaking oil was catching fire.

_Great…the hits just keep on coming…._

Through a haze of pain, he saw the translucent spirits approaching again. He doubted he could remain conscious through another attack. He desperately ordered his arms to rise and fire the gun, but neither arm would respond to his command.

Instead, his eyes sought out Sam. He found Sam, just in time to see him scream.

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The searing pain in his chest stopped as abruptly as it had started. Sam gasped, partly to bring in air, partly in relief. His eyes cleared just in time to see Dean hurled across the room.

"Dean!"

He could only watch as Dean was slammed into the far wall, then picked up and brutally smashed into the next wall. He looked back at Eva, and tried to haul himself up to his feet. She was chanting an old French spell from her book, and clutching a small crucifix and what looked like a very old string of beads.

_A Rosary._

_Sometimes a spirit latches on to an object…a personal belonging. The spirit's power is tied to that object_… Dad's voice floated back to him, bringing memories of long-ago lessons and hard-learned truths. Eva was chanting a spell to control these ghosts, and clutching two old objects in her hand. He'd bet money that those objects once belonged to the two ghosts that were haunting this room. He'd also bet that getting them away from Eva would go a long way towards helping Dean.

The problem was _how_ to get those objects away from her. His bandaged forearms left him in no condition to grapple with her, and she could still turn the second ghost onto him if he tried to approach her. The growing pain in his skull, however, gave him an idea. It was risky, and probably futile, but he needed to do _something_. It had worked with the mugger, even if unconsciously, after all.

He reached out with his hand, and concentrated on the items Eva held as hard as he could. At first nothing happened. He felt more than a little silly, but he had few options left. He spared a quick glance at Dean, who was trying to lift his guns towards the ghost with no success. _Dean. I gotta help Dean_. He turned back to Eva with a new determination. His headache spiked, and he struggled to keep his attention on his objective.

Without warning, he felt the familiar sneeze-like sensation flood through his skull…but it didn't fade away like the earlier bursts did. He watched, with growing shock, as the crucifix and Rosary that Eva held began to swing in his direction. It was working.

Eva noticed immediately, and Sam watched astonishment register on her face for a second, and then stunned realization when she figured out what was causing the objects to tug away from her hand. She grabbed on with both hands, and desperately pulled back, pulling against Sam's telekinetic hold on them. Sam concentrated harder, straining to stay focused on his task, while at the same time worrying that the ability might slip away from him any minute now.

Eva cried out in frustration as _she_ was pulled with the objects. She slid several inches along the floor, much to Sam's amazement. He gasped for air, not realizing that he'd been holding his breath. For a moment, the pull on Eva slacked off. He refocused his attention and tried again. She fought back as hard as she could, but was clearly losing the battle.

She stared at him a moment, then her eyes moved to something on the floor. Daring to let his eyes slip, he followed her gaze, and realized too late that he had unintentionally pulled her closer to the displaced voodoo doll. She visibly tightened the grip of her right hand on the sacred objects, and let her left hand shoot out and grab the coffin nail tied to the doll. Glancing at Sam, she drove the nail into the doll's head with a shout of rage.

Sam's world exploded into pure white. It felt as though his brain itself had caught on fire! His hands abandoned their task and shot to his head, trying vainly to block the voodoo attack. Nothing he had ever felt could prepare him for the agony that assaulted him, threatening to turn his brain inside out.

He screamed.

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Dean could only watch as Sam clutched his head, screamed, and curled into a ball, rocking back and forth, shouting incoherently.

"Sam!"

_What's going on…?_ His eyes cut to Eva, and he saw the source of Sam's anguish. She was digging the nail into the voodoo doll's head as hard as she could.

"**No!**" he shouted helplessly.

The ghosts were almost on him again. With a surge of adrenaline spurred by his brother's plight, he managed to raise the rock-salt gun and fired. One of the ghosts vanished with a primal roar. Dean took aim at the second and didn't hesitate to pull the trigger.

CLICK.

_Fuck!_ It was empty. Out of pure desperation, he raised the other gun, even though he knew normal bullets couldn't really harm the spirits. As he raised the weapon, the second slave spirit batted his hand away, slamming it to the ground. Reflex caused his finger to depress the trigger on impact, and the gun fired in totally the wrong direction.

He was about to try and bring the gun back around, but he heard Eva's cry out in pain. At almost the same time, the ghosts halted in their tracks. He pulled himself around to look in the direction of the cry.

What he saw astonished him. The wayward bullet had lodged itself in Eva's right arm. She was clutching it with her left, having let both the voodoo doll and the Rosary beads fall uselessly to the floor. Dean looked back at his assailants, only to find that they had pulled back and were beginning to advance rapidly on Eva. She screamed in terror as she realized what had happened.

Dean tried to pull himself to his feet. The ghosts were in a frenzy now, and he had to get them out of there. The puddles of lamp oil behind him had caught fire now. Wonderful news, that was. He got on his hands and knees and stuffed his guns into his pants. The burning pain that throbbed in his back was a distraction, and he had to focus to keep from passing out.

The startling crack of a whip made his blood run cold. He looked up, and watched as the ghosts attacked Eva, dragging her off into the shadows of the far corner. She screamed as another whipping noise sounded. He started towards her in a half-crawl. No one deserved what was about to happen to her. But as he slowly rose, the rest of the oil lanterns exploded above his head, showering the room in glass and burning oil. The new downpour quickly caught fire, bathing the room in a deadly orange glow.

It occurred to him that he now only had time to save one of them as the old, dry wood began to char and smolder. It took no time at all to decide who. He was too deeply programmed from an early age. He headed for Sam.

Sam was still. He had stopped writhing when the voodoo doll was released, and now lay blissfully unconscious. Dean scooped up the little black spell book and shook his brother, trying to rouse him.

"Come on, Sammy…we gotta go, now! Sammy?"

The only response was a groan, but Sam's eyes fluttered open. Dean pushed him up into a sitting position, "Can you walk?" It was an ironic question, since Dean could barely walk himself. Sam nodded weakly, and Dean hoisted him up. A sudden panicked thought entered his mind as the flames intensified around them. He scanned the floor frantically for it, and finally snatched the voodoo doll off the floor, and away from the encroaching flames.

He took a moment to hold it up as he draped Sam's arm over his shoulder, "Probably don't want _this_ to catch fire…."

Sam nodded with wide eyes, "Uh…no. Okay. Let's go."

They helped each other through the narrow passageway and out into the bedroom. Dean heard Eva scream once more, but didn't dare slow his pace. He needed to get Sam out first, and then he could come back for her. He doubted the ghosts would kill her immediately, based on what they'd done to him. He saw Sam's longer arm snag the EMF detector from the bed, where it had landed the night before.

Descending the stairs rapidly, Dean tried to stifle the cry of pain as Sam's arm dug into his back. The dampness in his shirt had grown worse, and he was sure he'd busted the stitches open. The fire was already spreading down the building through the old wiring, and the first floor was smoking as well by the time they made it to the door.

The two of them burst out into the cool night air, gasping and coughing, trying to clear the smoke from their lungs. Dean noted with relief that the angel statues outside had returned to their placid, normal forms. The spell and the signs of haunting were fading.

He propped Sam against one of the nearest statues, and turned back to the building. There still might be time to rescue Eva. Misguided as she was, she didn't deserve to die.

Sam grabbed his wrist in a vise-like grip, "No!"

He looked back at Sam, who was pointing back at the building, "It's too late."

As if on cue, the third floor windows exploded, raining glass and wood down on the surrounding grounds. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. In the distance, he could already hear the sirens and horns of fire engines, getting closer by the second. Someone on one of the surrounding streets must have reported the fire already. He felt Sam's hands on his shoulders.

"It's time to go, Dean…."

He nodded, and they retreated to the car quietly. Dean climbed into the passenger seat, tossing Sam the keys. He had to sit sideways in the seat, the pain from his back taking over now that the adrenaline rush was leaving him. He glanced at the blaze, which was fully consuming the second floor now and moving down…taking with it Eva, the ghosts' remains, Marie's body, and all evidence that he and Sam had ever been there.

He glanced at Sam, who looked as battered as he felt himself, "Let's get the hell out of here."

The car was a mile away by the time the first fire engine arrived.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

_Seems like the beginning and end of this have been the easiest to write…it was the middle that gave me a hard time._

_Special thanks go to Geminigirl11 for supplying the French words used below, and for being a beta for this chapter. _

_To avoid confusion, I'll mention up front that gran'-mere means "grandmother" and gran'-pere means "grandfather."_

_I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews welcomed._

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**Chapter 10**

"Ow!"

"Hold still…."

"Stop poking me!"

"I will if you'll just hold still…."

"Ow!"

"Dean---"

"Get off me! You're not my type anyway!"

Sam sighed in exasperation, and tried to rethread the stitching needle. Again. His obtuse brother was making his job ten times harder than it needed to be. He paused and rubbed his head…the voodoo dolls effects weren't fading as quickly as before. He had no idea why, but he was sporting a headache now that was much worse than the psychic-induced ones that he'd been having all week.

"You okay?" Dean asked, craning his neck to see Sam, who was perched over him on the bed.

Sam shook his head and returned to his attempts to rethread the needle, "Yeah."

Dean stared at him, looking dubious.

Sam smiled, "No, not really. Ever since Eva got me with that doll…I don't know…feels like my head's trying to split open."

"Are you---" Dean started to roll over and face him, but Sam grabbed his hips and pushed him back down, "Hey!"

"I said _hold still_," Sam hissed through gritted teeth, "You're bleeding, and I don't want to see you in the hospital again anytime soon…so let me work!"

Dean looked at him as if he'd grown another head, "Geez…a little touchy this morning?"

Sam blushed, suddenly feeling self-conscious, "Sorry…I'm sorry…I---" he rubbed his tired eyes, trying to clear them; "I don't like it when you're hurt."

Dean stared over his shoulder at him for a moment, and then relaxed on the pillow, "Hey…I don't like admitting to _being_ hurt…." He said, his usual cockiness permeating his tone.

Sam snorted, "Yeah…understatement of the year."

Having to squint to see clearly, he straddled Dean's legs and hunched over to re-stitch a gash in Dean's lower back. It fortunately wasn't as deep as the ones he'd already fixed up by the shoulder blades. He heard the hotel room door open and close behind him, but didn't bother to look up. He'd recognize Sarah's perfume anywhere.

"Oh…I **gotta** get a picture of you two…." Sarah muttered with more than a hint of a smile in her voice. Sam was engrossed in his first-aid work, and didn't look up to get an explanation. He felt Dean tense beneath him.

"Huh? No! This isn't…uh…ahem…you almost done back there, Sammy?" Dean asked with a sudden note of discomfort in his voice.

Sam frowned; he hated being left out of jokes, "What are you two talking about?" he asked testily. He saw Sarah move closer in his peripheral vision, and then felt her kiss the back of his neck with a laugh.

"You're a little dense honey, but I love you."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and bit back a retort. The headache was making him irritable…he needed to just let Sarah and Dean carry on for now before he said something he'd regret. He finished up and placed the needle back in the dish of alcohol. A new bandage, and a few pieces of tape, and he was done. He climbed off his brother and sat at the edge of the bed, holding his head against the incessant pounding inside it.

"Still hurting?" Sarah asked from the other bed. He nodded.

He felt rather than saw Dean push up off the bed, and plop down beside him with a grunt. Sam chuckled softly. _Only **my** brother could still move around after having his back sewn up twice in twenty-four hours_…. He vaguely heard Dean say something about a flashlight to Sarah. The next thing he knew, his brother's hands were pushing his head back and he was blinded by a bright light in his eyes.

"Um, **ow**…" he griped.

What he liked to think of as Dean's "Doctor Voice" was the only reply, "No sign of concussion, so far…." _And how are YOU feeling Mr. Winchester? _Sam smiled to himself, but eyed Dean coolly, "You could have warned me, Jerk."

Dean continued his examination of Sam's head as if he hadn't heard, saying absently, "Bitching reflex appears normal." He let go, leaving Sam frowning.

Dean rose stiffly from the bed, and Sam watched as Sarah helped him slip a clean shirt over his bandages. Sam looked up at him sharply.

"Where are we going?" he asked, glancing at his watch. It was 4:30 in the morning.

Dean turned to him and pointed to the bed, "_You_ are going to bed. _I'm_ going over to Eva's."

Sam just blinked at him for a few seconds, "What…why?"

"Because getting some sleep might help your headache."

Sam shook his head, "No…why are you going to Eva's? The cops will be there today."

"Nah. It will be at least a few hours before they get the bodies out of the building and identified…the place will be empty for now. I need to be sure she didn't have any other voodoo crap planned with your hair."

Sam rose and donned his jacket, "I'm going," he said as he marched past Dean and out the door.

Behind him, he heard Sarah speaking to Dean, "He's sweet when he's worried about you."

He couldn't hear all of it…but from the reply, he didn't think Dean shared her opinion.

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"See anything else down there?" Dean called from the upstairs hallway. Sam was down below, examining the little "voodoo workstation" Eva kept in the living room. Her big spell book had burnt up along with her, so it was mostly ingredients and tools for casting spells and making those dolls.

Sam came into view, climbing the stairs and looking up at him, "Nothing of _mine_…that I can see anyway. What do you want to do with her other magic books? Take 'em or leave them?"

Dean frowned, Eva's words about Marie being a grave robber echoing in his mind. He shook his head, "Only if it's something dangerous. I'm not gonna _rob_ her house."

"Well, I think we're safe. Without that spell book of hers, nothing down there is a threat to anyone," Sam stated quietly.

Dean nodded, and stepped into the last bedroom. From its size and décor, he assumed it was Eva's. He stepped in, shining the flashlight along the far wall, dispelling the pre-dawn gloom. He noted the photos Sam had mentioned featuring the man they now knew to be Eva's grandfather with the cross nearby.

He felt a twinge of regret at that thought. In a deluded way, Eva was protecting her family…at least its legacy…and Dean could relate to that. He reminded himself that she was a murderer…it was just like calling a hit man to kill someone…the blood was still on her hands. Nevertheless, he was saddened that she had to die. He hoped she finally would see the error that she had made.

They hadn't found the cross. _So much the better_…. Eva must have hidden it somewhere. He made a note, though, that if he ever saw mention of it, he'd return and make sure it stayed with her family…maybe with her grandfather once again, if it came to that. He wouldn't want another grave robber dredging all this back up.

He was scanning the dresser for any leftover voodoo "tools," when he heard Sam grunt behind him. He turned, finding Sam sitting at the edge of the bed, holding a light green book in one hand and rubbing his head with the other. Sam's continuing headache worried him. He knew little about voodoo attacks and their aftermath, but Sam had recovered quickly from his first run-in with the doll. That alone sent up a red flag now.

Why wasn't he recovering from this one just as quickly? He wondered if there was a connection with his 'Shining,' but didn't have enough information to even guess at what it might be. Sam had told him that, right before Eva attacked him, he had managed to actually control his ability for the first time.

"Head still hurting, little brother?" he asked softly.

"Heh…I'll tell ya…I'd really appreciate it if you got this jackhammer off my forehead."

Dean smirked and sank down on the bed beside Sam, "Sure. If you put this fire on my back out."

Sam laughed and sighed at the same time.

Dean grinned, and then glanced around the room, "I'll be glad to get out of this town."

"Yeah…" Sam mumbled, thumbing idly through the green book he'd found. Dean shined his light on it, trying to see.

"Whatcha got there?"

Sam glanced at him, "Eva's diary…I think."

"Shouldn't go through a girl's things, Sammy…."

Getting elbowed in the arm for the quip, he tried to see over Sam's arm, "Anything _we_ need to worry about in there?"

Sam flipped to a page, "Check this out. These entries date back to the eighties."

He read aloud from the diary.

_"Gran'-pere's cross caused more trouble today. Some fool found the old story in a local newspaper archive, and came asking if the cross was still around…. Gran'-pere told the man it had been melted down to make his teeth….I don't think the man will return, if his expression was any indication…I wish we could just get rid of it, it's caused so much trouble over the years, but gran'-pere refuses to give it up."_

Sam smiled, "And here, about ten years ago…."

_"I don't think gran'-mere's story will ever die out…today an art dealer named Babineaux approached gran'-pere about selling it…he made the mistake of letting her see it…he's been leaving it out more often lately…I think it reminds him of gran'-mere in ways that other things can't…he told the dealer no…but she seems determined…."_

_"That Babineaux woman placed the cross up for auction. We tried to stop her, but the police didn't believe us when we told them she stole it, or didn't care…. It sold last week to some collector from Florida…we contacted him, but he's going to make us buy it back…his asking price is more than gran'-pere's life savings…I don't know what we're going to do."_

Sam shook his head, and flipped to nearly the end of the book, "They managed to buy it back about nine years ago, but here…."

_"I can't believe what's happening…gran'-pere's grave was desecrated last night…at first I couldn't believe someone would do something like that in this day and age. We don't know who did it, yet. The police told us that it wasn't a 'top priority,' given the increase in crime since the storms last year…but I think I know who's behind it. If I'm correct, I swear to gran'-pere's spirit that she'll pay…."_

Sam looked up, "That was just last week…."

Dean shook his head, "It's…I don't know…it's _sad_, you know? I feel sorry for her."

Sam frowned at that, and stared back at him, "The **ghosts** killed her Dean…she brought it on herself. Don't blame yourself for that."

_Always reading my mind…he's gonna tell me how he does that someday_. Dean shrugged, rising from the bed and wandering the room, "Yeah, I know."

Sammy was right, he hadn't actually killed her. But he would have. He almost had, when he saw her hurting Sam, but the ghosts had been the immediate problem. In the end, the problems solved themselves, he supposed. Of course, he didn't say any of that to Sam. He looked back to the bed, where Sam was placing the book on the comforter, being careful to wipe his fingerprints off the spine.

"We done here?" he asked. Sam nodded.

They wiped down all the banisters and shelves, removing as many fingerprints as possible. As they stepped back outside, the sun was peeking over the horizon. They headed back to the hotel.

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_Interstate 59 North, passing Exit 41, the next afternoon_

"Ow. Ow…dammit…ow! Watch where you're driving!"

Dean had been complaining ever since they'd started the return trip to New York. He'd asked Sarah to join Sam up front, so that he could lay in the backseat and give his injuries a rest. But Sam seemed to be driving over every pothole in the asphalt.

"If you're gonna complain all the way back to New York, then _you_ get up here and drive," Sam groused back, glaring at him in the rear-view mirror.

"Nah, that's alright. You got it," Dean called back. The road was still jolting his stitches, but he'd aggravated Sammy…that should compensate. He closed his eyes and smiled when he heard the griping continue up front. From the giggling, he assumed that Sarah shared his amusement.

Sam was in a much better mood today, despite his defensiveness about driving. The lingering headache caused by the voodoo attack had disappeared by the time they got on the road. Dean didn't feel as bad picking on him now that he was back to relative normal. _Well…normal for Sam…._

He rested there for a moment, but despite the best efforts of the painkillers he had ingested before leaving, he couldn't fall asleep. He tried to get comfortable as best he could, but lying on his stomach in the back of the car just wasn't doing it for him. He hated to admit that his baby's back seat wasn't comfortable…and he'd never tell Sam.

He gave up trying to sleep and just rested his eyes, listening to the road go by and Sam and Sarah converse quietly in front. He heard the distinct sound of jeans on leather, and realized that Sarah had slid closer to Sam. He peeked through half-closed eyes and saw Sam's bandaged arm draped over her shoulders and the seat. He closed his eyes again.

He almost struck up a new conversation when the sounds from up front quieted, some time later, but decided against it. He was feeling distinctly like a third wheel. He hated that feeling. His morose feelings weren't helped by the depressing effects of the painkillers, or the lack of talking. He began to feel _exiled_ to the backseat, even though it had been his idea.

He let his thoughts wander, settling on a day at Missouri's sometime after the funeral. Neither he nor Sam had spoken much. Dean had been more or less fully recovered from the battle with the demon…but Sam was still clammed up. Dean found it hard to be alone in the house, and Sam wanted to do nothing except sit in the back yard, so, he found himself restlessly meandering about, and finally ended up outside with his all-too-quiet brother.

He had already realized by that point what had happened with Sam; how he had unintentionally hurt him in the hospital…he just didn't know how to fix it. Sam was sitting on a garden bench in the back that day, staring into a box of odds and ends.

"_Hey."_

"_Hey," Sam glanced over but didn't quite make eye contact. His face carried no expression at all._

"_Missouri went to the store…said she was making our favorite food for dinner."_

_Sam looked at him, "How'd she know what we want?" he asked, then glanced at the house, "Oh…yeah." _

_She **was** a psychic after all…it was easy to forget sometimes._

_Dean looked at the box. Some of the things inside were pretty old, "What is all that?"_

"_I'm just going through Dad's things."_

_Dean didn't answer. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Dean rose and took a step towards the house._

"_I'm gonna get a beer. You want…anything?"_

_Sam shook his head, still staring at the box. _

Things stayed quiet between them for days on end. Every now and then, one might ask the other if they needed something, but nothing more substantial than that. They never left the house. Dinners were spent with Missouri, but the dining room was like a tomb. A few 'pleases' and 'thank yous,' but nothing else. She had stopped trying to reach out to them. Neither of them was within reach. They took turns cleaning up.

A few weeks went by, and then, around the fifth week, Dean stepped out back. As usual, he found Sam on the bench. He was flipping through Dad's journal, but not reading any of it, just looking at the words. Dean sat down next to him, staring at Missouri's flowers.

"_Sarah called."_

_Sam acknowledged him with a glance and a barely raised eyebrow, but nothing else. _

_"Said she's been trying to reach you…but your phone's turned off."_

_"Oh."_

_"Sammy…" he trailed off. What could he say? He dropped it for the moment. Switching gears to the other thing that had been nagging him._

_"So, uh…I guess you'll want to be heading back to California…."_

_Sam just shook his head, appearing disinterested. _

_Dean looked at him, puzzled, "I thought…I thought you were going back to school?"_

_Sam shrugged, "There's nothing in California for me," he said softly._

_Dean was confused, and he hated himself for the bubble of relief that rose through him at the idea that Sam might stay. As much as he wanted Sam close, he didn't want him to give up his dreams. He couldn't say any of that though. The words just wouldn't come._

_"Sarah invited us to stay at her house for a while. We could do that."_

_Sam looked generally in his direction, again expressionless, "Sure."_

That had been that. Stanford was out. Dean never asked why Sam made his decision to stay. He was afraid to. Sam never brought it up.

Now, listening to the murmured comments and small talk from the front seat, Dean felt that old fear creeping through him again. Sam was clearly in love with Sarah, whether he admitted it or not. All she'd have to do is ask….

And when that happened, he didn't know what he'd do.

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At some point, Dean fell asleep. The constant hum of the engine and the rhythmic sounds of the Interstate lulled him into unconsciousness. The painkillers probably contributed to that as well. He awoke in a puddle of drool when he felt the car slow down and come to a stop. Wiping his face in disgust, and tossing the small, now wet, camping pillow into the floorboard, he stretched his stiff arms and resettled his head on his folded jacket.

Sarah said something about finding the bathroom, and Dean surmised that this was why they had stopped. He watched Sarah open her door and get out through hooded eyes. Dean let his eyes drift lazily over the upholstery, wondering idly how much longer the painkillers were going to work.

"You gonna tell me what you've been brooding about back there?"

Sam's voice startled him. He saw his brother's eyes gazing intently at him in the mirror. He raised his eyebrows as if he didn't know what they were talking about.

"Nothing. Just sleepin'. Why?"

"You only slept for the last hour…you spent the four before that _brooding_. About what?"

"I don't brood."

Sam laughed and turned in the seat so that he was propped up over the back, staring down at Dean. Dean was unsure how his vertically over-endowed brother had even managed _that_ move.

"Dean, you have never gone this long on the road without talking unless there was something bothering you. Seriously, man, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing, Sam…I…I've just been thinking about the past couple of months. That's all."

Sam considered that for a moment, then sighed and shook his head, "Yeah. It hasn't been a good year for us…."

_Especially you, Sammy_…. Dean shifted uncomfortably, wondering whether or not to say the other thing. He glanced up at Sam, who was staring at him suspiciously, "What?"

"You're making that face."

"What face? I don't make faces."

"You're making that face you make when you're holding out on me. What else is buggin' you?"

"I…well…nah, it's stupid."

"Goes without saying," Sam muttered. Dean glared at him, but Sam continued, "Tell me."

"It's just…I watch you and Sarah and I think…forget it," Dean turned and propped his head up on his forearms, "forget I brought it up."

Sam, as always, didn't listen, "I've noticed that you've been acting weird around us…what…" he paused, looking around like he'd just uncovered a big clue. _Little brothers are so annoying._

"Are you **jealous**?"

Dean didn't answer, he closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Or slip into a coma. Anything to escape the pit of emotional crap he'd just dug himself into.

"You are," Sam continued, "Oh, my God, you _are_," he paused, "this is awesome."

Dean's eyes shot open and he stared at Sam as though he'd lost his mind, "What? _Awesome_?"

Sam laughed, "Yeah…I mean, all the times in high school when I was jealous of you and your dates…this is the first time…wow…this feels weird."

"It was all your fault," Dean replied, happy for the detour the conversation had taken, "you could have had Christie Stevenson."

"Half the school had her, that's why I didn't want her," Sam deadpanned. Dean smothered a laugh. _He's right about that_.

Captain Mood Swing wasn't finished yet, though, as he sobered immediately and looked thoughtful, "You can have any girl you _want_ though," he reasoned, talking to himself and sounding just like a Hollywood detective with a clue, "you wouldn't be…wait…are you worried about _us_? I mean…you and me?"

Dean frowned and closed his eyes again, praying for sleep…or death.

"Don't be so dramatic, Sammy."

Sam favored him with a grin, "Dean…you're my brother. And the only family I---." He stopped, unwilling to finish the thought, then continued, "No one comes before you, not even Sarah. Even if this relationship goes somewhere, like, you know, in the future…no one takes your place."

The feeling of joy that washed over him affected him more than he would ever admit. He covered it with the standard joke, not knowing what else to say, "You are such a girl, Sammy. Next time we go shopping I'm buyin' you heels."

"Dean…what brought this up? I mean, why now?"

Dean answered that honestly, "I don't know. It's just been on my mind lately."

"That's why you've been acting funny?" Sam asked, "Why you asked if I wanted a separate room?"

He cocked an eyebrow at that, "You remember that?"

"I had a headache, I didn't go deaf."

Any response Dean might have made was cut off when Sarah returned to the car. She took note of Sam's awkward position on the seat and glanced between him and Dean, "Everything alright?"

Sam smiled at her, "Yeah…just killing time." Dean silently thanked him for preserving his dignity, but reminded himself that he didn't really expect anything different. His blood ran cold at Sam's next words, though.

"Dean was just telling me how jealous he was of you. He says he wished he could get his hair fixed as beautiful as yours," Sam glanced back at Dean with a huge grin.

Dean glowered, but there was no heat behind it, and he kicked himself for thinking Sam was going to sell him out, "Bitch."

Sarah looked at them both quizzically, but Sam cut off any questions by kissing her.

"Gross…get a room!"

"Shut up…."

"You shut up!"

"Jerk!"

"Perv!"

He saw Sarah roll her eyes, "Daylight's burning, boys…let's get back on the road."

Dean raised his eyebrows at that, but Sam beat him to it, "You've been hanging around Dean too long. I can tell."

"Girl after my own heart, Sammy," he looked at Sarah, "You sure you want grandma to drive, though, Sarah?"

Sarah laughed. Sam huffed, "I drive better than _you_, Mr. Road Rage."

"Dream on, Geek," he turned his attention back to Sarah, "the first time I let him drive this car, he hit a house. How do you hit a freakin' _house_?"

"First of all, Ass, you didn't 'let me' do anything. You were in jail. And secondly, I drove into that house to kill a ghost!"

"Yeah, whatever. Loser."

The cracks flew back and forth for a little while, before Sarah cranked up the radio to drown them out. The rhythmic thrumming of Metallica and the road beneath them soon lulled Dean back to sleep.

This time he didn't dream at all.

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They spent the rest of the week at Sarah's house. Her father had been disappointed when Sarah told him that the item Marie and Legiere had contacted him about was a fake.

It was true. More or less. But 'Chuckles' couldn't handle the truth of what actually happened as well as his daughter could, of that Dean was sure.

By the following Sunday, it was time for them to leave. Sarah's vacation was over, and they didn't want to be staying in her house while she was working all day. Not that she hadn't asked. Sam had regretfully declined. That surprised Dean somewhat…but Sam was never one to wear out a welcome. Though Dean's ears could testify that Sam made the last night he and Sarah had spent together quite memorable. Dean was still trying to forget _those_ sounds. _Scarred for life_….

Dean's back was healing up nicely, and he could drive without too much difficulty now, so long as he didn't rub his bandages the wrong way. Sam was insistent on checking them every day and applying the antiseptic goop the hospital had given them. Dean didn't argue when Sam got that way. It was easier to simply submit to the worried attentions of your little brother and then mock him mercilessly about it later.

Sam hadn't had a psychic headache since they had left Picayune. The past three days had been telekinesis-free. Dean was pleased to see that particular worry disappear…but it disturbed him that they had vanished just as suddenly and unexpectedly as they had appeared a week earlier. He didn't like surprises…not when they affected Sammy in unforeseen ways.

He watched from the driver's seat, now, as Sam bid Sarah a long goodbye. He felt he should look away when they kissed…he knew it had to be painful for Sam. Sam formed attachments fairly easily; it had been difficult for him when they were always on the move as children. His attachment to this place, and her, would naturally run much deeper. After what seemed like an hour, they released each other, and Sam headed for the car. Dean returned Sarah's wave and warm smile. He liked her, and he was sure Sam would return to her someday. Whenever he was ready, he supposed.

He glanced at Sam when the younger man dropped into the seat and closed the door, "Sure you don't want to stay? We can find a hotel."

Sam looked at him, smiled, and ducked the question, "We ready to move out?"

Dean took a deep breath, "Where to?"

"I found something about a poltergeist in Denver, and another black dog in Nevada. Should be easy enough to handle for now…until we finish healing up," he paused and looked through the windshield as Dean pulled away from the house, "but we need to stop in Lawrence first."

Dean looked at him, curious at Sam's change in tone. A hard glint had appeared in Sam's eyes, "How come?"

"I have a favor to ask Missouri."

"Oh…okay," Dean drawled, "hey…you remember that prank we pulled on Old Man Hoskins' kids?"

TBC


	11. Epilogue

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed and is still reading. It's been fun expanding on the AU storyline I (unintentionally) started with "In the Pursqueeter," and I'm happy a lot of you enjoyed it this much._

_I want to extend another HUGE thank you to Faye Dartmouth and geminigirl11 for helping me with this one, they were invaluable to me._

_I don't own anything Supernatural. Reviews and final comments welcomed._

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**Epilogue**

"I don't know what to tell you."

Dean blinked at Missouri for a moment, and then glanced at Sam, who'd been sullenly staring at the table since the discussion began. He turned back to Missouri, who also happened to be looking at Sam.

"Well…you must have _some_ idea what caused it. I mean, Sammy's ability just cranked up a week ago…there must be a reason."

"_Of course_ there's a reason, boy, I'm not saying that at all. I'm just saying that _I_ don't know why it started so suddenly," the psychic replied gruffly.

"How can that be? I mean, you experienced something like this, didn't you?" Sam asked, finally looking up at her.

Missouri sighed, "My ability to sense thoughts started a lot earlier. And it's different for everybody. There's nothing in a medical journal about psychic abilities, Sam. You won't find any research about it to guide you. Truth is, even psychics don't fully understand what happens or why. Heck, sometimes people just get hit over the head and it starts."

Dean looked up at her sharply. _Hit on the head_…. "Wait a minute. Sam had a concussion…when he was abducted. And every time he had a---" he broke off, shooting a worried glance at Sam, but since the younger man didn't seem to be listening, he plunged on, "---every time he had a flashback, it was followed by a headache."

Missouri pursed her lips, "Hmm…it might be. Maybe the concussion affected something that set his telekinesis off. It's possible. But why did it stop a few days ago?"

Dean felt a sense of dread come over him. He reached into his coat and pulled out the voodoo doll, "Maybe it had something to do with this."

Missouri took the doll and looked at it appraisingly before looking at Sam, "Cute…it looks just like you, baby."

Dean grinned at Missouri's evaluation of the voodoo doll. He took what he had dubbed 'Gingerbread Sam' back from her outstretched hand and shot a shit-eating grin at Sammy, who was glowering at him from the other side of the table.

"Could the voodoo attack have…I dunno…gummed up the telekinesis? He was trying to use it when Eva attacked him."

Missouri shrugged, "Sympathetic magic like that has all kinds of side-effects," at Sam's scoff, she added, "Like I said, there's no books or research on this stuff. If I had to _guess_…I'd say Sam's mind was just stunned…his power will probably resurface when his mind recovers from the attack."

A distinct groan could be heard coming from Sam's direction. Dean glanced between them uncomfortably, reading some increased tension from Sam. He decided to switch gears away from the telekinesis.

"Okay, well, you think there's a way to destroy this thing without hurting Sam?"

Missouri considered the idea for a moment, "I think so. But, why don't you let me keep it. I read about a ceremony once that uses one voodoo doll to counter another…we might be able to do something similar with this one."

Dean raised his eyebrows, "You mean you can use this to make Sam immune to voodoo attacks?"

"Maybe. Leave it here and I'll check on it for you."

Missouri eyed them both, clearly waiting for one of them to reveal why they were _really_ there. Dean suspected she already knew. He wished _he_ did. Sam hadn't told him anything on the way here, but he had grown increasingly agitated as they got closer to Lawrence. Something was eating at him, but apparently he wasn't keen on sharing it. All the talk of Sam's ability and the voodoo doll had been at Dean's prompting.

"Dean, why don't you take that doll upstairs and put it on the desk in my bedroom?" Missouri asked. Her tone was pleasant, but her eyes were delivering a different message altogether, _'Leave the room.'_

He looked at Sam, whose eyes were fixed on the tabletop. His stony expression revealed nothing. With a frown, Dean rose and left the room, glancing back as he passed through the kitchen door. He'd always hated being left out of the loop.

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Once Dean was gone, Sam fixed Missouri with a piercing stare. He must have looked angrier than he thought he did, because she flinched a little when their eyes met. He'd never seen her react that way before. She must have already sensed what he was going to say. _Fine, that works too_.

"You know what I want."

"Yes…but I don't know if that's possible."

Sam slammed his fist on the tabletop, an irrational fury bubbling over inside him, "I want this thing **_out of my head_**!"

Missouri looked as if she was about to chastise him for his outburst, but her face settled into a frown, "I know you do, honey. The question you need to ask yourself is why?"

_Where do I begin?_ He opened his mouth to explain it to her…but found himself at a loss. He'd had it all planned out in the trip here, everything he wanted to say, but now, under her stern gaze, he was speechless. She didn't wait for him to reply.

"You have a powerful gift, Sam."

Sam snorted in derision, "Yeah…some _gift_."

"What do you mean by that?" She used that tone where she _seemed_ curious, but Sam knew it was just a ploy she often used to make people talk. It always seemed to work.

"You call this a gift," he said quietly, "but it's a **curse**…and you know that. It destroyed my family, ruined all our lives. If it wasn't for this fucking 'gift,' mom would never have died…Jess would still be alive…and I wouldn't see futures that I can't prevent."

"Now you're thinking about Dean," Missouri stated matter-of-factly.

"You're damn right," Sam spat, his anger building again, "how many times could I have stopped him from being hurt? This power…the visions…the _ability_…it's all useless. I couldn't see that dad was possessed, I couldn't stop the demon in that shack, I couldn't stop those vampires, or Dean from getting beaten last week…" he was rambling, but he didn't care, "…or stop Max, or stop Meg----"

"You've saved Dean's life twice now, with your visions…the time with Max and on that road with the vampires."

"_Twice_. How many more times could I have? He got burned when I was kidnapped…a hot poker…did you know that? Those fucking hillbillies tortured him because _he came to rescue me_. We all almost died in Chicago when the daevas attacked us. Where was my so-called gift? If it won't work when my family needs it, then I don't _want_ it!"

"It isn't that simple, Sam."

"Yes, it is!"

"Baby, I know you're angry…you're scared too, I can sense that, but this gift," Missouri paused when Sam rolled his eyes at the word, "this **gift**, is a part of you. You can't just cut it out or remove it…you can't do cosmetic surgery on your mind."

"Why not?"

Sam was startled by Dean's voice coming from behind them, "Because even if it was possible we don't know what it would _do_ to you…you might get hurt."

_So what?_ He wanted to say, but he bit back the retort, "You don't know that."

Dean slowly moved back to the table, watching Sam as he sat back down, "Yeah, well…I'm not going to take that chance."

Sam's brow furrowed at that statement, the fury returning, "It's not your choice…it's _mine_."

Dean stared back at him placidly, but his tone of voice was both dismissive and final, "Yeah…we keep having this conversation. I'm not gonna let you hurt yourself, Sammy. What kind of big brother would I be if I did?"

Sam looked to Missouri, hoping for support. Surely she could see why he needed to get rid of this thing. She met his gaze just as calmly, shaking her head in silent refusal. He cursed under his breath and was overcome by the urge to run away. He followed his urge. Scowling, he pushed away from the table and stormed out the back door, leaving his unhelpful companions behind.

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Dean stepped out onto the back porch silently, closing the door behind him. He found Sam at his familiar place, in Missouri's garden, slumped on the wooden bench.

Steeling himself to face his stewing brother, he moved out into the yard. Of all the things he disliked, arguing with Sam…really arguing…was his least favorite. He always felt bad for his little brother when it was over. _Dad always told me I had too much of a soft spot for him…but how could I not? _He supposed it just boiled down to not wanting to disappoint Sam. Usually when they argued, it was Sam's own good…or at least Dean's opinion of what was good for him. For better or worse, he had been a de facto parent to his little brother, as messed up as that was, and sometimes, he really _did_ know best.

That didn't make adding to Sam's lifetime of disappoint any easier, though.

He wordlessly moved beside Sam and sank down onto the bench. He watched Sam staring off into the bushes behind the house, rubbing the slowly-healing scars on his arms with one hand. He was silently mouthing words to himself. Dean had seen the expression a hundred times. Sam was composing an argument. An argument that he intended to win. He suddenly saw Sam dressed as Matlock in his mind, and a laugh threatened to escape his lips.

Fighting back the grin that threatened to break out on his face, he settled back and relaxed, waiting for Sam to say something. His mere presence was usually enough to interrupt Sam's brainstorming when he got like this. It was a talent he had first used when Sam was twelve…and perfected during Sam's rebellious teenage years. The tactic had snuffed out more than a few bitter fights between Sam and their father before they got started.

Sam glanced at him, as expected, and quickly looked away, a defiant frown marring his face, "If you're here to tell me why I shouldn't get rid of my 'gift,' don't bother."

Dean kept his poker face on, "I'm not here to tell you that."

Sam's eyes moved towards him, but didn't leave the bushes, "Then what?"

Dean propped his arms up behind his head and shrugged, "I just like sitting out here." He waited. He knew Sam wouldn't be able to resist talking for long. He watched Sam out of the corner of his eye and saw the younger Winchester begin to shift restlessly. _Won't be long now_. Sometimes, the big brother had to cheat in order to take care of the little brother. He didn't mind using this subtle manipulation tactic one bit. As expected, Sam turned to him.

"You can't tell me," Sam spat, tapping his temple for emphasis, "that we wouldn't have been better off if I'd never had this thing…if I hadn't been born a---" he stopped and looked away abruptly.

Dean looked over at him, "A what?"

Sam's mouth tightened. _He does a good imitation of a clam_….

Dean thought he knew where that thought had been heading, so he took a shot, "You know…Sarah and me…we don't mind that you're a freak…if that's what you're worried about."

Sam turned back to him, looking like he'd been caught doing something wrong, "Dean…leaving blame and guilt aside for a moment…we both know that demon was after kids with 'abilities.' Mom and Jess died because they got in its way. That thing all but told us that."

Dean eyed Sam for a moment, and decided that for once honesty was required over platitudes and excuses, "You're probably right. As much as I hate to admit it, that's probably why that thing killed them…that, and it was an evil, _sadistic_ son of a bitch."

The slight change in facial expression told him that Sam thought he was making progress in his argument, so Dean chose that moment to burst the bubble. He tapped Sam on the forehead roughly to get his full attention.

"But finding a crazy brain surgeon or some whackjob mind reader to go in and try to change the way your _brain_ works…all that'll do is make things _worse_, Sam. It won't bring any of them back. Mom, Jess, Dad, Jim, Caleb…they're _gone_. And so is that demon while were at it. That's all over. It's just you and me now. And you need to let them go, or you'll always hate yourself for things you can't control…and for that 'Shining' thing that you can't change."

Sam held his gaze for a minute, and then went back to staring at the bushes. He looked more miserable than he had when Dean sat down. Dean sighed and joined his brother in staring. But, like Sam, he couldn't sit next to his sibling for long and not talk.

"You sat out here a lot when we were here last time. I didn't know you liked gardens that much."

Sam shrugged, "Missouri said she chose the flowers out here carefully…something about how seeing all the different color patterns swirling together soothes the mind."

Dean pursed his lips, "Does it work?"

Sam smiled for the first time all morning and shook his head, "No."

"Well, maybe it just doesn't work on you psychics. I kinda like it."

Sam sighed, "Dean. Maybe you're right."

Dean knew he wasn't talking about the flowers, but he didn't press. In the end, Sam was going to have to come to terms with his gift on his own.

"I try."

Sam glanced at him with a resigned expression, "I'm telling Missouri that you called her a whackjob."

"I didn't call _her_ a whackjob…I was talking about…you know…_other_ mind readers."

Sam nodded condescendingly, "Uh huh…she's _so_ gonna hit you with a spoon…."

"Dude, it hurts when she does that! Don't tell her."

Sam's smile became a grin, and he turned back to viewing the yard. His leg bounced restlessly against the concrete walkway beneath them, "You wanna see if we can con her into making another apple pie before we leave?"

Dean nodded emphatically, "Absolutely!"

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_Missouri Mosely's house, 5:00 PM_

Sam was mostly quiet for the rest of the day. Missouri convinced him to let her do a deep reading on him to make sure Eva's voodoo attack hadn't damaged anything, but she couldn't find anything.

_Dude, she said she couldn't find anything in your head! Ha!_

_Shut up, Jerk. Maybe she should read **you**, now. _

_No way! She might get jealous reading about all the girls._

_Or start laughing hysterically._

_…shut up._

By the late afternoon, it was time to move on. They bid their farewells to Missouri, and promised, as always to come back soon. Dean propped the apple pie she had…grudgingly and after much begging…baked for them on the seat between them, and looked over at Sam. The younger man slid into the passenger seat after hugging Missouri goodbye, and glanced back at him with a small sigh.

Between the two of them, Dean and Missouri had managed to convince Sam that the best way to deal with his 'gift' was to confront it head on. Learning how to use it, Dean argued, would do Sam better in the long run than running away from it.

He couldn't blame Sam for wanting to escape it. The Winchesters were always running from something, it seemed…haunted memories, emotions, even themselves. Dean didn't exactly fault that strategy…their Dad had taught them well: _Live to fight another day…the rest takes care of itself eventually_. Not exactly Hallmark or Philosophy 101, but it seemed to work for them.

But he also honestly felt that learning to control his abilities would bring Sam some peace…even if that only meant being able to sleep through the nights sometimes without being plagued with nightmarish visions. He promised Sam that he'd help, since this was uncharted territory for both of them…though he really had no idea how.

"Ready to go little brother?" he asked, reaching for the key. Sam grabbed his hand before he could start the car, though. Dean glanced at him in confusion, "What?"

"Shhh!" Sam hissed, staring intently at the steering wheel. Dean was about to speak again, when Sam closed his eyes and his brow furrowed in concentration. Then, with a gasp, his eyes shot open and Dean heard the jingle of his keys. The car started.

Without either of them turning the key with their hands.

Dean stared at Sam in surprise, "But…you didn't have a headache today…."

Sam looked at him and nodded slowly, "I know. I just…had a feeling."

Dean could only sit and stare. He didn't know what to say. _Maybe this won't be so hard after all._

Sam just smiled at him, "Let's hit the road, big brother."

The End

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_Well, that's it. The end of the AU storyline started in "In the Pursqueeter." Hope you enjoyed it. See you all next time! _


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